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want what was promised me. And I resent the rather cavalier attitude of your salesman. I don’t want to take this any further. I
am
a lawyer,” he growled.
    Of course. Announcing one’s profession unsolicited was one of the more irritating affectations of eighties Washington.
    “I apologize for the delay,” I said. “Mr. McGinnes may have run into some red tape in getting your ice bucket. I happen to know that they
are
in now. I’ll call the warehouse manager and have him put one on the transfer truck. You can pick it up tonight.”
    “Thank you,” he said curtly, and hung up.
    I dialed the main office and punched in the extension of Joe Dane, the warehouse manager. I asked him to find an ice bucket and throw it on the truck that day to the Avenue.
    I walked over to the cashier’s station where Lee was wipingoff the shelves with glass cleaner. McGinnes was handing the customer his receipts.
    “Here is a copy of your paid invoice,” he said, “and this is a copy of your extended maintenance agreement. I’ve stapled my card to your receipt in case you need anything. You’re really going to love your set. It’s got the highest IS rating of any set we sell.”
    “What
is
the IS rating on this set?” I interrupted. IS stood for “internal spiff,” a Nutty Nathan’s incentive to step off the advertised product onto profit pieces.
    “This one’s rated at twenty,” McGinnes said coolly, then turned back to the customer. “If you’d drive around to the back door, I’ll load you up.”
    Lee touched my arm lightly to move me out of the way. I caught a whiff of her as she slipped by. Malone walked his customer to the front door, his arm around her waist, his hand just brushing her jeans above her crotch. They talked softly for a few minutes, then he held the door open for her, giving her his model’s grin.
    McGinnes, knocking the dirt off his shirtsleeves, moved quickly up the aisle towards the cashier’s station. Malone arrived at the same time. McGinnes folded his arms and stood straight.
    “Yeah,” he said. “Twenty dollar spiff. Another ten bucks commission at four percent. And a fifteen dollar pop for the service policy. Forty-five bucks for fifteen minutes’ work.” He paused to rock back on his heels. “I love this business.”
    “I’d love it too,” Malone said, “if I could get an up.”
    “You had an up,” McGinnes said.
    “That wasn’t no up,” Malone said. “That was just a freak.”
    McGinnes said, “If you hadn’t been dickdancing around with her in the back, you could have had my customer up front.”
    “That’s all right. I got a date with that redbone tonight. And I’m
still
gonna smoke your ass this month, Mick.”
    “Listen, you guys,” I said, “this is fascinating. But I’ve got to run across the street for about an hour. Tell Louie when you see him, hear?”
    *     *     *
     
    THE OLD MAN’S APARTMENT was in the same disarray as the night before. Sunlight came through the window in a block, spotting the layer of dust that had settled on the cherrywood furniture.
    Pence was wearing what appeared to be his only outfit. His hair was slicked down, and he had begun a part on the left side of his head but apparently had given up on the idea halfway through. He smelled of whiskey and Old Spice.
    “You want some coffee?” he asked. “I reheated it when you buzzed me from downstairs.”
    “Black, thanks.” He marched into the kitchen with short, quick steps.
    I avoided my old chair and found another seat. Near the dining room table, on a two-tiered stand, was the color set McGinnes had sold the old man, a middle-of-the-line profit model. Below it was a videocassette recorder that I didn’t recognize. I got up and walked over to the unit to examine it more closely. The nameplate read “Kotekna,” which I gathered to be a Korean brand. Stamped across a metal plate on the back were the model and serial numbers, the model number being KV100. Following