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without the usual matching belt at the waist. It had short sleeves, and his sinewy forearms were hairy. Thick reddish chest hair curled out of the top of the suit where he had pulled the zipper down for about eight inches. He wore zippered cordovan boots, and they were highly polished.
           "What's the girl's name?" I said.
           "How should I know?" he said. "I never seen her before. What's the matter with her, anyway?"
           "There's nothing the matter with her," Don said. "She's dead, now, and you killed her!" Don started for him, but Hank grabbed Don by the arms, at the biceps, and gently pushed him back.
           "Take it easy, Don," Hank said. "Let Larry handle it." When Don nodded, Hank released him.
           "Step forward a pace," I said, "and put your hands on top of your head." The man shuffled forward, and put his hands on his head. "Here, Don," I said, handing Don the pistol. "Cover me while I search him. If he tries anything shoot him in the kneecap."
           "Sure, Larry," Don said. His hand was steady as he aimed the .38 at the man's kneecap.
           "I'll hold the pistol, Don," Hank said, "if you want me to."
           Don shook his head, and Eddie grinned and winked at me as I went around behind the man in the jump suit to frisk him.
           "Leave him alone, Hank," I said. "Why don't you fix us a drink?"
           I tossed the man's ostrich skin wallet, handkerchief, and silver ballpoint pen onto the coffee table from behind. He didn't have any weapons, and he had less than two dollars worth of change in his front pockets. He had a package of Iceberg cigarettes, with three cigarettes missing from the pack, and a gold Dunhill lighter.
           At his waist, beneath the jump suit, I felt a leather belt. I came around in front of him, and caught the ring of the zipper. He jerked his hands down and grabbed my wrists. Don moved forward and jammed the muzzle of the gun against the man's left knee. The man quickly let go of my wrists.
           "For God's sake, don't shoot!" he said. He put his hands on top of his head again.
           "It's all right, Don," I said.
           Don moved back I pulled down the zipper, well below his waist. He wasn't wearing underwear, just the belt. It was a plain brown cowhide suit belt, about an inch-and-a-half in width. I unbuckled it, jerked it loose from his body, and turned it over. It was a zippered money belt, the kind that is advertised in men's magazines every month. If he had been wearing the belt with a pair of trousers, no one would have ever suspected that it was a money belt. I unzipped the compartment. There were eight one-hundred dollar bills and two fifties tightly folded lengthwise inside the narrow space. I unfolded the bills, and counted them onto the coffee table.
           "That ain't my money!" the man in the yellow jump suit said.
           "That's right," Eddie said, laughing. "Not any more it isn't."
           "I'm telling you, right now," the man said, "that dough don't belong to me. You take it, and you're in trouble. Big trouble!"
           I sat down at the coffee table, and went through his wallet. Eddie sat beside me in another straight-backed chair. Hank set scotches over ice in front of me. He held an empty glass up for Don, and raised his eyebrows. Don shook his head, but didn't take his eyes off the man in the yellow jump suit. Hank, with a fresh drink in his hand, leaned against the kitchenette archway, and stared at the man.
           There were three gas credit cards in the billfold: Gulf, Exxon, and Standard Oil. The Gulf card was made out to A. H. Wesley, the Exxon to A. Franciscus, and the Standard card was in the name of L. Cohen. All three cards listed Miami addresses. There was no other identification in the wallet. There was another eighty dollars in bills, plus a newspaper coupon that would entitle the man to a one-dollar discount on a