"We've taken that into consideration." f.a.n.n.y smiled. "As I officially work for you, n.o.body is going to think it strange that I'm in the building with you. And, to prevent your tongue from slipping when the police come to check, we'll put one of these small detonators in your underpants. It's remote controlled and the explosive power is just big enough to damage certain parts of the body permanently."

Goldwa.s.ser turned pale just at the thought. "It won't have to come to that," he said. "The code number is the arithmetical complement of the number on my ID card. It's very simple. For every digit you take the difference with nine, for the last digit, the difference with ten. My ID card is in my wallet."

f.a.n.n.y stood up. "All right. But remember. We'll also detonate the device if you gave us the wrong number. Where's your wallet?"

"In my pocketbook." Suddenly his eyes opened wide. His breathing was so fast that f.a.n.n.y thought for a moment he was having a heart attack.

"What is it?" she asked suspiciously.

"G.o.d help me. The pocketbook. I left it on the roof of the car... drove off... forgot. It's gone."

"That's not my problem. All I need is the code."

He shook his head violently. "That's just it. I don't know it by heart. Without my ID card we can't get in."

f.a.n.n.y brought her face close to his. "You don't think you can trick me that easily, do you?"

The sweat was now pouring off him. "I swear to you, Miss Galinda. We'll have to wait until Monday morning. There's no other way."

f.a.n.n.y straightened. "That's what you think. Kosta and Stako won't need more than ten minutes to help you refresh your memory." She snapped her fingers. "Go ahead, boys."

Kosta and Stako quickly went into action. Kosta unrolled the wire and plugged it in. Stako poured the Champagne over Goldwa.s.ser's head because he would conduct electricity better when wet. With a practiced move he clamped one of the alligator clips to the struggling Goldwa.s.ser's right nipple, and the other on the small toe of his left foot. Meanwhile, Kosta had the voltage regulator ready. "We work with a scale from one to ten," he declared with an evil grin. "We'll start you on four to warm you up. Until now we've never had to go higher than seven. Brace yourself."

Goldwa.s.ser bent his back in antic.i.p.ation and screeched with fear.

But before Kosta could flip the switch, the doorbell's little melody rang through the house.

For seconds n.o.body moved. Then f.a.n.n.y bent over Goldwa.s.ser and pushed the razor under his nose. "Are you expecting anyone?"

Goldwa.s.ser hardly dared move his mouth to answer. "No one."

f.a.n.n.y increased the pressure. "A silent alarm maybe?"

"No way," Goldwa.s.ser whispered. "Check the monitor."

f.a.n.n.y was beside the control panel in two steps and studied the screen. "Blast!" she said. "It's that b.u.m with the two raincoats. What's he doing here?"

The doorbell rang a second time.

In a flash, Goldwa.s.ser remembered the tramp standing in the middle of the intersection waving a dark object. He thanked G.o.d for his mercy. "Let him in," he sighed, relieved. "The good fellow has found my pocketbook."

f.a.n.n.y waited for Pier at the door. He recognized her by the red top. In his Antwerp Seefhoek dialect he asked her whether he could speak to Mr. Goldwa.s.ser. f.a.n.n.y tried, first in French and then in English, to make him understand that he had better hand over the pocketbook straight away and then get lost. Because he didn't understand her, she lost patience with him. She pulled him inside, slammed the door shut, and took him upstairs.

Pier looked dumbfounded at the naked man in the chair, whom he recognized as the driver of the Mercedes. Rosa had told him that rich people played strange games sometimes and hurt each other for fun, but this seemed to be a little over the top to him. The woman in the miniskirt spoke to the two men in Russian. He'd boxed against a Russian once and he had sworn at Pier in that incomprehensible language during the whole bout until Pier had silenced him with a direct left. The man in the chair asked him about the pocketbook in Dutch and when he told him that it was still at Rosa's he went berserk. He alternated between begging for the pocketbook and cursing Pier for not bringing it. Pier got so upset that he didn't react immediately when the two men brought his hands together behind his back and cuffed him. Not until they pushed him roughly into a chair did it register that he was in trouble. "Stop that right now!" he protested. "If you think I'm going to play along with your dirty games, you're mistaken."

"It's not a game," Goldwa.s.ser moaned, beads of sweat on his forehead. "They are robbing me, those two men are vicious gangsters and if you don't give them my pocketbook and the wallet immediately, I wouldn't give a dime for our lives."

"Rosa has the pocketbook," Pier said with sudden clarity of mind. "She didn't want me carrying all that money across town and we didn't want to hand it in at the police station because of the reward we are going to send to Starving Africa."

"Rest a.s.sured, my good man. Give me back my wallet and I will reward you handsomely. Where does Rosa live?"

Pier shook his head. "I'm not supposed to tell anyone." No one was allowed to know they were living together, otherwise they would lose part of their social security.

"What's the moron saying?" f.a.n.n.y asked impatiently.

Goldwa.s.ser translated, and Pier just couldn't understand why his refusal to give Rosa's address caused such a commotion. The angrier they got, the tighter he shut his mouth. They tore clumps of hair from his beard and used his head for a punching bag, but he had learned to take it and even when they threatened to cut off his left ear- the deaf one- but they didn't know that, he didn't even flinch. And just as the gong had saved him from a knockout in many of his fights, so the doorbell saved him now. It rang just as the man with the razor was about to carry out his threat.

Rosa had quit after only thirty mailboxes and returned home. She should have known better than to send Pier out on his own and with an unusual a.s.signment. He was all right as long as he was in a familiar environment and stuck to his daily routine. Essentially he was a good man with a heart of gold who only wanted to do household ch.o.r.es for her or to take care of her when she had one of her attacks. They complemented each other perfectly. She had the brains, he the brawn.

She got to the house, put the pocketbook and its contents into a backpack, and got on the bike. Pier had a twenty-minute jump on her. The only way to overtake him now was in a taxi. As soon as she'd thought of it, she rejected the possibility. A taxi would cost bits of people, the money could be better spent. Pier would understand. In their mania for n.o.ble causes too, they were on the same wavelength.

In the Jan van Rijswijcklaan the wind was behind her so she could increase her tempo a little. She thought about her first meeting with Pier, a good seven years ago.

She'd been on her way home from the post office where she'd collected her monthly social security. Just fifty meters from her house she'd had one of her epileptic fits. She had severe muscle spasms and fell on the sidewalk against the front of her house. All the pa.s.sersby walked around her and even when three young hoods took the opportunity to grab her handbag, no one intervened. Except Pier. He had seen what happened, collared one of the thieves and shook him. The other two had gone for Pier with knives. With a few well-aimed upper cuts, he knocked them off their feet. He had taken the stolen handbag from them and concerned himself with Rosa. The fit was over but now she had the blinding headache and confused feeling that always followed an attack. Pier had taken her in his arms and carried her up to her apartment on the third floor. He had stayed with her until she was able to take care of herself again. A few days later a pressure group had filed charges against Pier because he was an ex-boxer and had handled the young thieves too roughly. He was penalized and had had to pay their medical expenses. Ever since then, Rosa and Pier had kept each other going. She made sure he didn't get involved in any other incidents because Pier clearly didn't know his own strength. And he took care of her when she had one of her attacks.

She reached the Kastanjelaan and to her relief, saw his bicycle parked against the gate. She didn't hesitate for a moment. She put her thumb on the bell and kept it there.

There was no language barrier between f.a.n.n.y and Rosa and f.a.n.n.y was at her best. "He's upstairs," she answered sweetly to Rosa's inquiry after Pier. "Follow me."

Upstairs, Rosa saw what was going on with one glance. Tears came to her eyes when she saw what they had done to Pier. He was lying in the chair barely conscious. One eye was beaten shut and blood was running from his nose and mouth. She walked toward him and tried to help him up. Then she saw that his hands were tied behind his back. "Monsters," she screamed. "Untie him at once!"

"You hand over Slepak's wallet, now!" f.a.n.n.y barked at her. "Or would you prefer us to cut your pimp to ribbons?"

Rosa was standing in front of Pier to protect him. "I don't have any Slepak's wallet," she said. "Only a Goldwa.s.ser's."

Kosta's patience had run out. He took the razor from Stako's hand and pushed Rosa aside. He'd show her they weren't playing games. But before he had a chance to use it, Rosa attacked him. She scratched him with her nails and b.l.o.o.d.y stripes appeared on both sides of Kosta's nasty face. His reaction was brutal. With his free hand he punched her in the face so hard she fell over backward and stayed down, dazed.

Pier was back in his corner in the ring. He knew he'd lost the bout, but that was all right. Rosa didn't want him to fight back. It would only make things worse, she always said.

The sound of Rosa being hit in the face registered in his numbed brain like the sound of the gong announcing the final round in a t.i.tle fight. He sprang up. Mustering every ounce of strength his aging body still possessed, he launched his attack. Hands bound behind his back but head forward, he rammed Kosta in the stomach. Kosta never knew what hit him. He was out cold before he hit the floor.

Pier turned to face Stako. He was once again the mighty young street fighter from the Seefhoek district. Stako panicked. Russian bullies aren't used to their victims fighting back. He aimed his gun and pulled the trigger but had forgotten to take the safety off. Before he could correct the mistake, Pier was on top of him. With a head b.u.t.t he broke Stako's nose, and a merciless knee in the groin finished him off.

Pier now turned his attention to f.a.n.n.y, who backed away in fear. There was no stopping him now. In the Seefhoek you never gave an enemy a second chance. But before he could attack her, Rosa said: "That's enough, Pier. We're going home. We still have our paper round to finish."

Pier relaxed immediately. He smiled.

"Yes, Rosa." he said.

Pier was putting food onto their plates. The menu was mashed potatoes and cabbage with fried sausage. Rosa sat at the kitchen table, with a pile of banknotes in front of her, which she was counting and then dividing into equal piles. A note was on each pile with the address of the charity it was going to and a simple signature: "Rosa and Pier," no further explanation.

Pier was not completely happy with it though. "Are you sure there'll be no trouble over this?" he asked.

"Very sure." Rosa answered. "Goldwa.s.ser was scared to death we were going to involve the police. I think that may have had something to do with that other name of his, Slepak. If you ask me, Goldwa.s.ser wasn't completely innocent either."

"But didn't you blackmail him a little to get him to give us the money that was lying there as a reward?"

"Maybe," Rosa said. "But I had a n.o.ble cause."

Pier put the plates on the table.

They started eating and stared at the piles of brand-new bills.

"A lot of money," Pier said after a while.

"Yes," Rosa said. "Two hundred thousand euros."

Pier put a piece of sausage in his mouth and chewed. He thought for a while. Then he said: "I wanted to ask you something, Rosa but you mustn't get angry."

She shook her finger at him. "If you're thinking of keeping part of the money, the answer is no."

He looked indignant. "Of course not."

"That's all right, then," she said satisfied. "What did you want to ask me?"

He cut off a piece of sausage. "I was just wondering what happened to all this European money, francs, marks, and guilders we used to have?"

Gary Phillips.

The Sleeping Detective.

GARY PHILLIPS grew up in South Central Los Angeles, and much of his fine, brave work reflects that fact. With such novels as Bad Night Is Falling and Jook, Phillips takes his readers to places they probably haven't been before. For all the rough turf, however, there's a gentle, even melancholy aspect to his work and a strong, redemptive sense of humor. He is one of those enviable writers who grows stronger with each book. "The Sleeping Detective," published in The Shamus Game, features his series detective Ivan Monk doing what he does best.

The Sleeping Detective.

Gary Phillips.

Monk wasn't quite himself. His arms swung loose at his sides as the heels of his brown wing tips echoed in the long hallway. The corridor stretched underneath Los Angeles International Airport. It was the last old part of the sprawling facility, constructed in 1961 and still connecting the TWA terminal with the outside. Wait, he asked himself, what year is this anyway?

His heels clacked a rhythmic pattern as Monk- no, it was McGill, yeah, his name was McGill, and it was 1967- strode confidently along the tiled pa.s.sageway. The walls were also covered in tile, done in multicolored linear designs.

McGill cared nothing of style or theories of architecture. He cared nothing that he'd been double-crossed and left for dead in a windblown shack in the Tehatchapis. He projected little about what willful fate had spared him the grave after being shot twice, point-blank. No, the only thing McGill cared about was getting back the $67,000 owed to him. And if he had to do it over the bodies of his best friend Veese and his wife, Jill, so be it.

McGill's tie herked and jerked as his tall, fluid frame pounded toward the end of the corridor. His face was as empty of emotion as the hallway was devoid of other pa.s.sengers. His close-cropped, prematurely gray hair complemented his crisp Brooks Brothers suit. The muscles in his legs flawlessly propelled him toward the end of the pa.s.sageway, and closer to his goal.

S'funny, but he didn't ache from the wounds, the holes his dear darling lovingly put in him. This while her boyfriend, Veese, the guy he'd saved once on a job gone wrong, looked on, licking his lips. If McGill was the chatty sort, and he wasn't, he'd be vague on the details of how he got out of that below-freezing cabin at night and got himself healed up.

Suddenly he was no longer in the airport. The echo of his shoes blended in with the sounds of midday traffic. The sun was bright and glinted off the windshield of the new Biscayne he'd stolen as he parked on the rise. He removed the hand shading his eyes. Up there past that wall and shrubs was the door to their love nest. If he could still remember how to smile, he would have.

Now he was moving across the threshold, the .357 Magnum in his right hand. His left hand was in Jill's face, pushing her back and out of his way. She'd been so shocked upon seeing him, all she could do was whisper his name over and over. Not that it mattered to him if she called out Veese's name. He wanted him to step into the cross hairs.

Everything- his motion, her falling, the door banging back- happened in slow motion, defying logic and the laws of gravity. He kicked in the door to the bedroom, aiming and firing in the same heartbeat that thudded in his throat. The recoil of the pistol made his arm twitch. It wasn't his .45, and absently he wondered why he'd traded that for this bruiser. He emptied the gun's six bullets into the unmade, and unattended, bed. He whirled as real time jumped back on track.

"A ghost, an avenging specter." Jill had a hand to her forehead as if she were fevered. "McGill, I-" She couldn't finish, didn't dare to offer an excuse.

He stood there, spent, close on her, and despite himself that familiar feeling flooded over him, if only momentarily. He pointed the gun barrel at the bed. "Where?"

"Gone."

"How long?"

"Months. He stops by every so often. Sends money by courier each month."

"When?"

"Today, later."

He glanced back at the bed. Behind the headboard was a floor-to-ceiling mirror so Veese could watch himself as they made love. On the nightstand was a box. It was open, and on its side read CONTINENTAL DONUTS.

He turned back to her as they sat on the couch. For some reason his eyes were closed and he couldn't get the lids to lift....

"Ivan," she said, kissing his ear. "Ivan, when did you get in, baby?"

He yawned, his arms encircling the pillow. "Ummm," he drooled, "after five." He lay half awake, the details of the dream fleeing his conscious mind.

Jill Kodama got off the bed, rubbing the back of his head. "I didn't hear you get in. You must have driven straight from New Mexico after I talked to you yesterday."

"Wanted to get home, sleep."

She leaned over and kissed his cheek. She smelled like flowers. "Aren't you a bit perfumed up for a judge?"

"You want me to smell like cigars and Old Spice like you do?" She slapped his b.u.t.t under the blanket. "I'll call you later, see if you want to come downtown for dinner. Let's try Ciudad. The Veese case I'm trying is about wrapped up."

"Is he guilty?"

"That's for a jury to decide, citizen Monk."

He opened an eye, a kraken awakening from the depths. "Is he guilty?"

She was at the door to their bedroom. "I'd say he has blood on his hands. Call you." She left, and he tried to get back to sleep. After some effort, as his body wound down again, the phone rang, and rang, and rang.