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the building, separating it from its tenement neighbors on the left, and on the right from the busy street that led onto the Rock Island Centennial Bridge. Set apart like that, the building took on an aloof quality that Nolan couldn’t link with recollections of YMCAs of his youth. The Ys in his memory were composed of crumbling brick and young sweat and old tennis shoes; this one was sheet glass and cement and scalloped steel.
    Nolan edged his way through the packed car lot, went up the walk and into the building. The lobby was like the outside, only with carpeting. Over on the right was the reception desk, the kind you stand behind. This time Nolan didn’t have a choice of personnel, there being only one clerk on reception duty, an unattractive girl in her late twenties. He paid her ten dollars for the room and didn’t ask to see it.
    Back out on the street, having waded his way through the lot of cars, Nolan winced at the dry, biting cold on his face and decided he wasn’t up to the dozen-or-so-blocks walk to the hotel. He cut one of the fives in half with a cab ride back and finished off the other half with an eleven o’clock roll and coffee in the Concort coffee shop.
    After breakfast, Nolan strolled out into the lobby and picked up a message at the check-in desk: “Call me at 555-7272, Werner.” He walked to the phone booth next to the lounge entrance and put in the call. When the ringing stopped, it was replaced by the sound of a female voice saying, “Flaming Embers Restaurant, can I help you?” It was the kind of voice that went well with bedroom eyes.
    “Speak with Mr. Werner, please?”
    “Just a moment, sir, I’ll ring his extension for you.”
    He heard the click of the button going down, and the ringing started in again, only to be replaced by anotherultra-feminine voice, which asked for Nolan’s name. Nolan said, “Logan,” and after a thirty-second wait, Werner was on the line.
    “Where you been all morning, old friend?”
    “Bought myself a new suit. Never go to your own funeral poorly dressed, I always say.”
    “Funeral, hell. You’re making a wise move. Charlie’s ready to sit down with you. You’ll get results with him tonight.”
    “What time tonight?”
    “Eight o’clock’s the set time. I’ll be going out to the airport to pick him up at six-thirty or so. His plane’ll be in at seven something.”
    “I see.”
    “It’ll be just you and me and him. No bodyguards, no guns, just the three of us.”
    “A cozy Family scene. All we need is a fireplace.”
    “That’s right. Nonviolence is in this year.”
    “I hope Charlie’s heard about that.”
    “Don’t worry about it. You’ll be following your own ground rules, won’t you, friend? My neck is out for you, you know. What about that visit out to Cavazos’s you said you were going to make?”
    “Pure social call. I don’t have the money to buy fresh socks, let alone guns.”
    “Well, if you need anything, anything but guns, that is, I’ll see you get it. We go back a few years.”
    “So do Charlie and I.”
    “Play by the rules, now, Nolan. You’re the one set them up, after all.”
    “Right. See you tonight.”
    Nolan cradled the receiver and got out of the booth, headed back to the check-in clerk.
    When Nolan introduced himself, the desk clerk—a short, dark, eager young man—spent a good thirty seconds assuring Nolan he would do “anything for a friend of Mr. Werner’s.” Nolan got out the roll of fives.
    “Now, Mr. Logan, please, Mr. Werner said everything was to be taken care of, no charge whatsoever, Mr. Werner said . . .”
    “Said I was an old friend of his,” Nolan finished. “That’s right, and I’m planning a little surprise for Mr. Werner tonight, as a matter of fact. I just hope he doesn’t get wind of it. Hate for it to get spoiled for him.”
    “A surprise?”
    “That’s right. This is something kind of personal between Mr. Werner and myself. But you could help, if you’re