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now?”
    â€œDo you wish to continue?”
    I nodded.
    â€œCould you give me an estimate of your monthly expenses and receipts?”
    â€œNot without going over the books.”
    â€œThere will be time for that, I am sure. What is your relationship with the restaurant upstairs?”
    â€œI own the building. Vittorio pays rent—not much—runs the Cruzon, sells wine and beer and drinks from our cellar. And he makes sandwiches for me.”
    â€œSo the two operations could be combined?”
    â€œThey already are, really.”
    â€œI visited the restaurant earlier this evening and noted the dimensions. That leaves only the cellar. Would it be possible for me to examine it?”
    â€œSure.”
    I picked up my cane and my keys, and we went back downstairs. As I was unlocking the door to the basement, Klapprott said, “One moment, please. I’d like my associate to see this.”
    He made a curt gesture toward the bar. A few seconds later, the bald guy he’d been sitting with showed up. His associate was a mouth-breathing six-footer with heavy sloped shoulders, a cheap blue serge suit, and a bully’s happy eyes. He smelled of schnapps—a lot of schnapps.
    He asked Klapprott a sharp question in German. The lawyer shook his head.
    I told them to wait there until I got the lights. I took my time and made more noise with my stick than I needed to. I also shifted around some cases and boxes before I hit the switch, and they came downstairs. Klapprott started drawing in his little book while the big bald guy poked around.
    The cellar had a low ceiling, bare brick walls, plank floor, and a pungent smell. It was a combination of that raw underground earthiness you get in an unfinished basement along with all the old beer and liquor that had spilled and soaked into the floorboards.
    Eventually, Klapprott said, “It’s difficult to estimate in this light, but it appears that the cellar does not extend to the street.”
    â€œNo,” I lied. “It used to, but Carl Spinoza, who owned the place before I did, put in those shelves and walled off that part. But that was before my time. We don’t use it now. Hasn’t been open for years.”
    The associate was extremely curious about the shelves on that wall. He kept talking to Klapprott in German. He looked over our beer and ice storage and the dumbwaiter that went up behind the bar, but he kept going back to that one wall of shelves.
    I couldn’t understand the words they were saying, but I recognized the irritated tone of the associate’s questions, the slurred voice, and some angry jabber that didn’t sound like questions. Klapprott’s responses were short. He was telling the guy to shut up, and the guy wasn’t paying any attention. He was getting mad about something.
    Finally, he came back and pointed at me and waved his hands around. He edged closer, still talking a mile a minute and looking at Klapprott. He turned away, then swung back around fast, trying to sucker-punch me.
    It figured that the big bastard was up to something, but I didn’t think he’d do anything like that without Klapprott’s OK. Judging by the lawyer’s surprised expression, he thought the same thing. But the big shit wasn’t as fast or as clever as he thought he was, or as sober as he needed to be.
    I brought the cane up with my hands spread and blocked the blow. I jabbed with the hook end, aiming for his throat, but missed and crushed his nose. Blood spurted over his chin and stained his shirtfront. He staggered back and knocked over a case of Scotch. I wasn’t stopping until I was sure he’d stay down, so I changed my grip and went for his ribs. I swung hard as he twisted away, and I hit his side. Something crunched. It wasn’t my stick. He went down to his knees.
    Then Klapprott pushed his way between us saying, “Please, Mr. Quinn, no more. I apologize most profusely. Please let