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dollar or I’d never see anybody. There’s people right now in this city go to Stoon even though he gives a worse dollar—they’ll take smaller cash just so they don’t have to sit and talk with Arnie.”
    Dortmunder said, “Stoon? Which Stoon is this?”
    â€œEven you,” Arnie said. “Now you want Stoon’s address.”
    Dortmunder did. “No, I don’t, Arnie,” he said. “We got a good relationship.” Trying to change the subject, he took the plastic bag out of his pocket and emptied the goods onto the schoolchildren. “This is the stuff,” he said.
    Reaching for it, Arnie said, “Good relationship? I don’t have a good relationship with any—”
    There was a sudden loud knocking at the door. In relief, Dortmunder said, “See? There’s somebody come to visit.”
    Arnie frowned. He yelled over at the door, “Who is it?”
    A loud, firm voice yelled back, “Police, Arnie! Open up!”
    Arnie gave Dortmunder a look. “My friends,” he said. Getting to his feet, slowly strolling toward the door, he yelled, “Whada you people want?”
    â€œOpen it up, Arnie! Don’t keep us waiting!”
    Methodically, Dortmunder scooped the jewelry back into the plastic bag. Standing, he put the plastic bag in his jacket pocket and, as Arnie opened the door to the cops, Dortmunder stepped into the bedroom (girlie calendars, from gas stations and coal companies). Behind him, Arnie was saying, “What now?”
    â€œJust a little chat, Arnie. You alone?”
    â€œI’m always alone. Do I know you? You’re Flynn, aren’t you? Who’s this guy?”
    â€œThis is Officer Rashab, Arnie. You happen to have any stolen goods in your possession?”
    â€œNo. You happen to have a search warrant in yours?”
    â€œWould we need one, Arnie?”
    There was no fire escape outside this room. Dortmunder pressed his forehead against the window, looked down, and saw it was no good.
    â€œYou guys’ll do what you wanna do anyway. You’ve tossed this place yourself before, you know that. And all you ever got was dirty socks.”
    â€œMaybe we’ll be luckier this time.”
    â€œDepends how you feel about dirty socks.”
    Dortmunder stepped into the bathroom. (Horse-print and hunting-scene calendars.) No window, only a small exhaust grid. Dortmunder sighed and stepped back into the bedroom.
    â€œI got enough dirty socks of my own, Arnie. Get into your coat.”
    â€œI’m going somewhere?”
    â€œWe’re having a party.”
    Dortmunder stepped into the closet. (Aubrey Beardsley calendars.) It smelled very badly of dirty socks. He pushed through the coats and pants and sweaters and pressed his back against the wall. The voices came closer.
    â€œI went to a party once. They made me go home after twenty minutes.”
    â€œMaybe that’ll happen this time, too.”
    The closet door opened. Arnie, disgusted, looked past coat shoulders at Dortmunder’s eyes. “My friends,” he said.
    Behind him, the talking cop said, “What’s that?”
    â€œYou’re my friends,” Arnie said, taking a coat out of the closet. “You’re my only friends in the world.” He shut the closet door.
    â€œWe take an interest in you,” said the talking cop.
    The voices receded. The front door slammed. Dortmunder sighed, which he immediately regretted, because it involved taking a deep breath full of dirty socks. He opened the closet door, leaned out, breathed, and listened. Not a sound. He left the closet, shaking his head, and went back into the living room.
    All alone. And the funny thing was, the cops seemed to have picked Arnie up just for the hell of it. “Hmmm,” Dortmunder said.
    There was a phone on the end table beside the sofa. Dortmunder sat down there, said, “Stoon,” and dialed Andy Kelp’s number.