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he doesn’t plan to say it again. “Yes, I’d like another key. That’d be nice of you, Earl.” Now very slowly. “But no, see, I want to keep the same safe-deposit box.”
    “But . . .”
    “I still want the stolen key to work.”
    “But . . . they could get into it,” Earl says bluntly, not understanding. He sounds disturbed, distraught, as if it could be his own loss. “They could go through your effects, Stan, and they could figure out where that key goes. It’s a long shot, but they could. I’m assuming you wrote down the number of the box somewhere—most people do—and isn’t it possible they could come across that?” The fantasy of the thief’s return, growing in the cautious banker, gaining in vividness, an increasing momentum of colorful alarm. “Don’t you see, Stan, if they know what box it is, and if one of them can learn to copy your signature and uses your desk contents to put together some ID . . .” He calms down a degree. “I guess I could alert the employees to anyone using your name. But that’s hardly foolproof or secure, Stan . . . I don’t know.” He pauses. “Christ, we’re a local bank. Can’t we just change the box?” Peke can tell that Earl is concerned Peke doesn’t quite understand the nature of the danger. That Peke’s not putting two and two together. IndicatingEarl’s doubt about Peke’s mental capacity. Probably now guessing at his long-standing customer’s age.
Early seventies? So he could be a little senile, a little irrational.
Not unlike the thief, Peke realizes, with his false concern that the Pekes had a place to sleep that night. Only cleverly gathering the information.
    “I understand,” says Peke, assuring him, then repeating the odd request once more, just so it’s clear to the banker. “I want a new key, but I want to keep the old box. I promise you, Earl, I understand.”

P eke knows already.
    It will be the watch.
    A man’s gold watch. From some Monaco estate sale, the money going to charity. Too gaudy to wear.
    Practically speaking, the police won’t—can’t—simply station a man at the bank. The thief’s return is too unlikely. Merely the paranoia, the vivid fantasy, of an old man recently violated, the police would say. And—assuming it is not paranoia—even if the thief does return, it could be weeks. Months. And an officer stationed there might prove useless anyway. Because someone this smart wouldn’t come himself. He’d find a way to send a well-dressed woman. Or an old man. Someone inconspicuous. Couldn’t Peke’s signature be easily forged? Or could the thief find some other way to circumvent the old-fashioned bank’s old-fashioned security? The more Peke thinks of Earl’s initial alarm, the more Peke doesn’t doubt the vulnerability. If he has the key and knows the box number, won’t he be able to work out the rest? But the thief’s return is hardly enough of a prospect to have the bank watched, or to make a special case of Peke’s safe-deposit box, or to change the bank’s safe-deposit box arrangements.
    But the gold watch. This thief—whoever, wherever he is—probably can’t display most of the items. The furniture. The paintings. They’re fenced, undoubtedly, or kept privately, personally, perhaps in some kind of hidden, supersecure Shangri-la.
    Yet the watch could be worn. It’s gaudy enough. And this guy—whoever he is—he’s like a crow, isn’t he? Loves objects. Shiny things. It’s one proof of his success that he can safely display, probably. The one item, perhaps, that he can risk having out in public. A constant reminder on his wrist—a reminder to himself and to anyone close enough—of his own success.
    Peke needs to be sure, though, that he is not gravitating to it merely for its symbolic perfection. Time stopped, time collapsed, time upended, time repeating. Earlier time and later time, merging now, inseparable. Time circling on itself, lapping and overlapping, its hands dancing with