“You flatterer you!” Laurie joked. “Anyway, he did offer to call the restaurant where I wanted us to go. So I know we’ll get good service. They love him there.”

“Sounds good,” Jack said. “Tell me, has Paul been pestering you?”

“Haven’t heard from him since he left the office,” Laurie said.

“Good.”

“See you at eight,” Laurie said.

“I might be a shade late,” Jack said. “As I said, I’m only now just heading out. But I’ll play only one game, and I’ll call you before I leave.”

“See you then,” Laurie said. “Remember! No bike!”

“Aye, aye, sir!” Jack said. He hung up the phone.

Jack ran out to his closet and searched around the cluttered space for his “kicks,” as Warren called sneakers. Impatient to get them on, Jack didn’t even bother to lace them before rushing out his door. He was about to close and lock it when he heard his name called out loudly from down below. Not recognizing the voice, he leaned over the banister to take a look. Three men were looking up from the ground-floor hallway, and when they saw Jack, they immediately started up the stairs. They came at a run, their boots making a fierce clatter against the bare treads. The one in the lead was a blond fireman in a blue uniform.

Jack put his head back and sniffed for smoke. He sniffed again after turning his head in the direction of his apartment, but still couldn’t smell any smoke. When he looked back down the stairs the lead man was already on the last flight leading up to Jack’s level. But instead of carrying a fire axe or some other appropriate piece of firefighting equipment, he was clutching a gun.

Jack backed up into his doorway, totally confused. The other two men were in black leather jackets, not firemen’s uniforms, and had shaved heads. Then Jack saw that the one bringing up the rear was carrying an assault rifle!

Curt stopped six feet away from Jack and knitted his brows. “You are Jack Stapleton, aren’t you?” he asked, looking Jack up and down.

“No, he lives on the next level up,” Jack stammered. He backed into his apartment and started to close the door.

Curt quickly stepped forward to get his foot inside. He pushed open the door and stepped in. Jack backed up. The two skinheads crowded in behind. The one with the rifle had a swastika tattooed on his forehead.

Curt’s eyes quickly swept the spartan room. He glared back at Jack and studied him. Curt was clearly confused. “I think you’re Jack Stapleton,” he said.

“No, I’m Billy Rubin,” Jack said, pulling the name out of nowhere. “Jack’s directly above me.” Jack lamely pointed at the ceiling.

“Captain, there’s a bike leaning against the wall,” Mike said.