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the other days. You weren’t in then either.”
    Clarisse reached over and spilled the contents of the leather envelope across the bar. Without hesitation she reached in the jumbled pile and pulled out a clipped sheaf of papers. “Here it is, Mr. Griffith.” The rest she laboriously stuffed back into the envelope. Griffith pressed his thumb gallantly on the latch.
    â€œI apologize for the delay. Everything can be done right now, and Valentine will get you whatever you’re drinking.”
    Valentine pushed a Heineken across the bar.
    Clarisse scanned the original, explained several passages briefly, and asked her client to make sure all was in order. She sat silently by while he read through the document. Clarisse fished a pen from her coat pocket, and Griffith initialed and signed both copies beneath her dexterous, pointing finger. He was pleased, and his eyebrows rose another quarter of an inch.
    Clarisse looked away. “I was going to call you today, but life is hard when you’re a real estate broker. One of my buildings burned to the ground last night, and the arson squad and I have been sifting through wreckage all day.”
    Griffith nodded sympathetically, and expressed the hope that no one was injured in the fire.
    Clarisse shook her head, handed him his copy of the lease and shoved the other back into the envelope. Once again she struggled with the catch. “Twenty-five people homeless, but not a scratch on any of ’em. I think the commissions just aren’t worth the long hard hours. Not to mention the heartache. Well, stop by the office and Richie will give you the keys. You’ll love Union Park.”
    Griffith thanked her and wandered away. When Clarisse turned she found Valentine setting a fresh drink before her. “I have never heard such a series of bald lies in my life,” he said. “ What fire?”
    â€œActually, there was a fire last night, but it was in my building, just after I got in. The awful little boy who lives upstairs set fire to his father’s collection of matchbooks, and they had to throw it in the bathtub to put it out.”
    â€œThat’s not exactly twenty-five people homeless.”
    â€œWell, the father was in the bathtub at the time, how’s that?”
    â€œNot good enough,” said Valentine, “and what was all that about a ‘hard life,’ and ‘long hours,’ and what was it—oh yes, ‘heartache.’ Heartache? ”
    â€œIt’s a tough racket. You get hardened.”
    Valentine laughed. “Maybe if you ever worked an eight-hour day, you’d—” He broke off suddenly, and stared blankly across the room.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?”
    He looked at Clarisse a moment before he spoke. “I have seen that kid.”
    Clarisse looked behind her. “Which one?”
    Valentine tapped the pocket containing the morgue photo. “Poor little Mr. Golacinsky.”
    â€œYou told that cop you’d never seen him before.”
    â€œHe was asking if I had ever seen him in here—and of course I hadn’t.”
    â€œThen how do you know him?”
    â€œI don’t know, but I have seen him. Recently, too. Read what he was wearing when they found him.”
    Clarisse ran her finger down the column. “Nylon football jacket…jeans, torn sneakers.” She looked up. “Maybe he just froze to death.”
    Valentine blinked. “He was on the Block last night.”
    â€œValentine, you are not going to tell me that while I am languishing between freshly laundered percale sheets, that you are out on the street looking for trade ?”
    â€œI wasn’t cruising the Block, I was out there walking your dog. So Veronica Lake and I were going down Marlborough and there was this poor kid, just about frozen to a lamppost, trying to look seductive when it’s ten degrees below zero.”
    â€œYou talked to him?”
    Valentine nodded and leaned