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with you, Lieutenant.”
    “You’re being ridiculous.”
    “No kidding.”
    “That pathetic putz ,’’ the detective breathed mournfully. “He ruined the movie for me.”
    “You’ve already seen it ten times.”
    “And another ten—even twenty—couldn’t hurt.” Kinderman took the priest’s arm and they walked. “Let’s go and have a bite at The Tombs or maybe Clyde’s or F. Scott’s,” the detective cajoled. “We can have a little nosh and discuss and critique.”
    “Half a movie?”
    “I remember the rest.”
    Dyer halted them. “Bill, you look tired. Tough case?”
    “Nothing much.”
    “You look down,” insisted Dyer.
    “No, I’m fine. And you?”
    “I’m fine.”
    “You’re lying.”
    “You, too,” said Dyer.
    “True.”
    Dyer’s gaze flicked over the detective’s face with concern. His friend looked exhausted and deeply troubled. There was something very wrong. “You really do look awfully tired,” he said. “Why don’t you go home and take a nap?”
    Now he’s worried about me, thought Kinderman. “No, I can’t go home,” he said.
    “Why not?”
    “The carp.”
    “You know, I thought you said ‘carp.’ “
    “The carp,” repeated Kinderman.
    “You said it again.”
    Kinderman moved closer to Dyer, his face but an inch away from the priest’s, and he fixed him with a grim and steady stare. “My Mary’s mother is visiting; nu? She who complains that I keep bad company and am somehow related to Al Capone; she who gives my wife Chanukah presents of Chutzpah and Kibbutz Number Five, these of course being perfumes made in Israel–the best. Shirley. You now have a picture of her? Good. Soon she is cooking us a carp. A tasty fish. I’m not against it. But because it’s supposedly filled with impurities, Shirley has purchased this fish alive, and for three days now it’s been swimming in the bathtub. Even as we speak it is swimming in my bathtub. Up and down.
    Down and up. Cleaning out the impurities. And I hate it. One further note: Father Joe, you are standing very close to me, right? Have you noticed? Yes. You have noticed that I haven’t had a bath in several days. Three. The carp. So I never go home until the carp is asleep. I’m afraid that if I see it while it’s swimming I’ll kill it.”
    Dyer broke away from him, laughing.
    Better. Much better, thought Kinderman. “Come on. now, is it Clyde’s or The Tombs or F. Scott’s?”
    “Billy Martin’s.”
    “Don’t be difficult. I’ve already made a reservation at Clyde’s.”
    “Clyde’s.”
    “You know, I thought you might say that.”
    “I did.”
    Together they walked off to forget the night.
     
     
    Atkins sat behind his desk and blinked. He thought that perhaps he’d misunderstood, or perhaps had not explained himself clearly enough. He went through it again, this time holding the telephone closer to his mouth, and then again he heard the answers that he’d heard once before. “Yes, I see… . Yes, thank you. Thank you very much.” He hung up the phone. In the tiny, windowless little office he could hear his own breathing. He angled the desk lamp away from his eyes, and then held his hand underneath its glow. The tips of his fingers were bloodless and white underneath his nails. Atkins was frightened.
     
    “Could I maybe have a little more tomato for the burger?” Kinderman was clearing a space on the table for the order of French fried potatoes that the dark–haired young waitress had brought them.
    “Oh, thank you,” she said, and then set the plate down between Kinderman and Dyer. “Will three slices be enough?”
    “Two is plenty.”
    “More coffee?”
    “No, I’m fine, thank you, miss.” The detective looked over at Dyer. “And you, Bruce Dern? A seventh cup?”
    “No, thanks,” said Dyer, putting his fork down beside a plate on which rested a largely uneaten coconut–curry omelette. He reached for the cigarettes on the blue–and–white tablecloth.
    “I’ll be back