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’Bye.”
    “Yes. Good-bye.” But the phone was already dead.
    The Golden Calf…
    “Who was that?” Cathy was calling.
    “Dick Wagner. He’s—we’re going to have lunch. At the Golden Calf.” He’d wandered into the kitchen. He was standing near the table, staring out at the mid-morning sunshine. It was a warm, wonderful summer day. Somehow he wanted to keep the sensation just for himself.
    “Well,” Cathy said, “you’d better have an omelette anyhow. It’s still three hours till one thirty.” Her voice was low, pitched to a slow, impersonal cadence. She was still thinking of Joanna’s call, he knew.
    He turned to face her. She was staring impassively down into the omelette pan. The eggs were burbling, almost ready to flip. She’d already added the scallions and shredded cheese. Her face was closed, her eyes slightly narrowed.
    “Get the glasses and the wine, will you?” she said shortly. “It’s the Chablis, in the refrigerator. From last night.” She was frowning now, setting her jaw. About to flip the omelette, she gripped the pan more firmly. The omelette-makers’ moment of truth was upon her.
    Without moving—without obeying her—he waited until she’d flipped the omelette, expertly. Then:
    “What’s wrong, Cathy?”
    She glanced at him briefly. She wore a T-shirt and close-fitting blue jeans. She wore no underclothing. Wherever his hands wandered, his touch would find flesh.
    “Are you going to get the wine?” Her voice was sharp. “Or shall I?”
    Not replying, he turned to the cupboard. He took down a single wineglass. Hers. He opened the refrigerator. He found the Chablis behind a half-gallon carton of milk—last night’s wine.
    He extended the knife blade, locked it in place, then cut a slow, steady line across the cardboard box. The cardboard parted behind the blade in a neat, crisp line, exposing raw corrugated edges.
    Did flesh part so neatly, slashed by a razor-sharp blade? If cardboard could bleed, and flesh were bloodless, would the result be the same?
    If a man were made of cardboard, and packing boxes made of flesh, could doctors use paste, and stock clerks catgut, putting the boxes together again? If they could, then stock clerks would be surgeons—riding in expensive cars, living in glass-walled penthouses.
    He would be famous.
    Famous.
    But not as a surgeon. He was more-famous-yet. Movie stars and magicians, mumblers and fakes—none could catch him now. Everyone knew his name, but no one could catch him. It was a magic name—himself, concealing himself. When they dithered and dothered and died, he could laugh.
    Laugh, Tarot.
    Was he laughing—secretly laughing?
    His stomach was knotted—the sure, sudden sign of danger. Another moment, and laughter would betray him. Quickly his glance traversed the storeroom. No one saw him. No one would know.
    Momentarily closing his eyes, he drew a long, deep breath. He explored the inside of his mouth with a careful tongue tip, searching for the warm, salty-sharp taste of blood. There was no blood-taste. Therefore, there was no danger. Ipso. Surgeons merely smiled. Movie stars mumbled. But Tarot always knew. Magically, Tarot always knew. But Tarot never laughed.
    The cardboard box was open. Magically, the box had opened. The corrugated edges were unbloodied. Ripped. Slashed. But still unbloodied. He moved the interior packing aside, tearing at the paper, exposing a bright blue ceramic lamp base nestled in the paper tatters.
    He straightened, blinked—stood staring down at the lamp base. Where had he seen it before? Certainly, somewhere he’d seen it—touched it, even. In the past, long remembered.
    At home. In the narrow, dark living room, he’d seen it—touched it—lived with it. In the sour-smelling apartment, lying on a lumpy sofa, he’d seen himself reflected in his mother’s bright blue lamp. But he’d never seen his mother; he’d seen only himself. Outside, while he’d stared at himself, children had shouted,