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pulled his pouting lip back in and looked at me for about half a minute while I tried on the wide-open, sincere, and slightly pathetic face I had come near perfecting by looking into the mirror on humid summer nights.
    Finally he sighed, a sigh to take in all of his troubles and those of the Allies. “Get out,” he said, turning his back again. This time he put his hands behind him. “If anything happens on this, anything, I’ll come for you, Toby. I’ll come and all the bad times in the past will be Mother Goose compared to it.”
    â€œThanks Phil,” I said, inching for the door. “Give my best to Ruth and the kids.”
    â€œRuth wants you to come for dinner, Sunday,” he said gruffly.
    â€œI’ll be there,” I said, my hand on the door knob. “And Phil, you deserve to make captain.”
    Something like a laugh came from him. I couldn’t see the face that matched it, but the voice had a touch of gravel in it. “The war got me this promotion,” he said softly. “Younger guys are gone, younger lieutenants. Tojo and Hitler got this promotion for me. Without them I’d go out a lieutenant. Funny, huh?”
    â€œYou’re selling yourself short, brother,” I said.
    â€œI’m selling myself at street prices,” he said. “I can live with that. What’s your price?”
    I left without telling him I had no minimum. What I did have was a pocketful of Eleanor Roosevelt’s cash. Seidman didn’t see me leave. Across the room I saw his thin frame leaning over to finish filling his artichoke crate. Caweiti was out of sight, probably discussing current events or Goethe with the Mexican in one of the interrogation rooms down the hall. Slaughter and a uniformed kid were in earnest, head-to-head conversation with the Negro kid still handcuffed to the bench. He was nodding his head in full agreement to everything they whispered to him, probably confessing to crimes committed a century before he was born.
    I almost collided with a well-dressed woman wearing a tiny black hat with a large black feather. She was about forty, maybe a little older, good-looking in a way that reminded me of my ex-wife, and perfumed heavily enough to break through the squadroom smell, at least at close range.
    â€œExcuse me,” she said, looking around the room with obvious distaste, “can you tell me where I might find the detective in charge of providing security for bridge parties?”
    â€œBridge parties?” I said.
    â€œWe are going to have a bridge party to raise funds for the USO and we would like a detective present to keep unwanted people out, if you understand,” she said with a smile reserved for people like me, who could not possibly understand people like her.
    â€œSergeant Cawelti,” I said. “That’s his desk right there. You just have a seat. He’ll be right back. Tell him Captain Peters said he should take care of you.”
    â€œThank you,” she said, taking off her glove and offering me her hand. I took it. It felt soft. “Thank you, Captain Peters. It’s difficult to know what the right thing to do is at times like this.”
    â€œYou’re doing the right thing,” I assured her, taking her hand in both of mine. Behind us, Slaughter grumbled, “No, no, no,” to the Negro kid, who had apparently given a wrong answer. The woman drew her hand away.
    â€œMy son’s in the army,” she said, trying to keep her eyes away from the scene on the bench. “It’s hard to know what to do.”
    â€œLeave it to Sergeant Cawelti,” I said, feeling guilty but not knowing how to get out of it. “Good luck.”
    â€œThank you, Captain,” she said as I walked out the door and left her perfumed presence to be engulfed by hell.
    Veldu called, “Take care, Toby,” as I walked past him and into the light of Wilshire Boulevard. A lone cloud crossed in