"Why do it in code?" the second regular asked him. "The Code War's over."

A third regular now hove about and steamed into the conversation, saying, "What? The Code War? It's not the Code War, where ya been? It's the Cold War."

The second regular was serene with certainty. "Code," he said. "It was the Code War because they used all those codes to keep the secrets from each other."

With a little pitying chuckle, he said, "Cold War. Why would anybody call a war cold?'

The third regular, just as certain but less serene, said, "Anybody's been awake the last hundred years knows, it was called the Cold War because it's always winter in Russia."

The second regular chuckled again, an irritating sound. "Then how come," he said, "they eat salad?"

The third regular, derailed, frowned at the second regular and said, "Salad?"

"With Russian dressing."

Dortmunder leaned on the bar, off to the right of the main conversation, and watched Rollo in the backbar mirror. The barman also had several screwdrivers, a hammer, pliers, and a corkscrew, and was using them all, one-handed, while holding up the beer sign with the other.

Meanwhile, the conversation was continuing, as the first regular rejoined it, saying, "Code. That's what I'm talking about, the black lines. It's some kinda conspiracy, that's all I know."

A fourth regular, who until now had been using the bottles on the backbar as a kind of impromptu eye test, now reared around, righted himself, and said, "Absolutely. A conspiracy."

Closing one eye to focus on the other regulars, he said, "Which conspiracy you mean?"

"The little black lines on everything you buy," the first regular said, bringing him up to speed.

The fourth regular considered that, closing first one eye and then the other: "That's a conspiracy?"

"Sure. It's in code."

"Like the war," said the second regular, with a smirk at the third regular.

The fourth regular nodded, closed both eyes, clutched the bar, opened both eyes, closed one eye, and said, "Which conspiracy?"

The first regular was affronted by this question. "How do I know? It's in code, isn't it? That's what makes it secret. If it wasn't in code, we'd know what it was."

The third regular suddenly slapped the bar and said, "That's what it is. Now I remember."

The others all swiveled around on their stools to consider Mister Memory. The first regular said, carefully, "That's what what is?"

"The Code War," the third regular told him. "That's what they call those little black lines, on account that's what they're for. When they have price wars."

"The Code War," the second regular announced, incensed that his definition had been taken from him, "was the war between us and Russia that's over now."

"Wrong," the third regular said, showing his own brand of serenity.

The first regular said, "I think everybody's wrong," and called, "Rollo! What's the name of that code, all the black lines on everything you buy?"

"Bar," Rollo answered, dropping some pliers and a screwdriver.

"There's a one-track mind for you," said the first regular, and all the regulars chuckled, even the fifth regular, who was asleep with his head pillowed by a copy of Soldier of Fortune magazine.

"This is a bar, Rollo," the third regular called, and they all chuckled again, as Andy Kelp walked in, shared a h.e.l.lo with Rollo, and walked over to join Dortmunder.

The first regular was saying, "There is a name, though, for those black lines, I know there is."

Andy said, "We the first?"

The second regular, doubt in his voice, said, "Morse?"

"Yes," Dortmunder said.

The third regular, blossoming with scorn like time-lapse photography, said, "Morse! Man, do you get things haywire. Morse code is what they put on those little notices they stick on the bottom of the furniture that you're not supposed to take off. It's a federal law, and it's named after Senator Morse."

"Civil," said the fourth regular, with both eyes open.

The third regular turned to repel this new attack. "We're bein civil," he announced. "All except somebody I don't feel I wanna mention."

"Civil code," said the fourth regular, being civil. "That's what they call the black lines."

A quick bzt sound came from the general direction of Rollo, followed by a curse, and the dropping of a lot of tools. "No," the first regular said, "it is not the civil code, which is something to do with the subways. It's called something else. I'd know it if I heard it."

Still on his knees, Rollo backed away from the window, then stood.

"Area?" suggested the fourth regular.

"No no no," the first regular said, "area codes is another word for zoning."

Rollo picked up his tools and the neon sign and headed for the bar.

"Zip?" suggested the fourth regular.

The other regulars all looked down at their pants.

Rollo made his way around the end of the bar, dropping his tools onto the shelf there.

"A zip is a gun," the first regular said.

Rollo approached Dortmunder and Kelp, dropping the neon sign into the trash barrel along the way. "n.o.body likes foreign beers anyway," he explained. "They're made with foreign water."

"Well, when you put it like that," Kelp said.

Rollo nodded. "You want the back room, right?"

"Yeah," Dortmunder said. "There'll be five of us."

It had long been a tenet of his that if you couldn't accomplish a task with five men you shouldn't try it at all. He'd seen exceptions to that rule, of course, just as there are exceptions to all rules, but as a general guide of thumb, so to speak, he still went with it.

"I'll send them back," Rollo said. "Who's coming?"

Understanding Rollo's idiosyncracy, that he knew his customers by their drink, which he felt gave him some kind of marketing advantage, Dortmunder said, "There'll be the vodka and red wine."

"Big fella," Rollo said, who was no slouch himself.

"That's him," Dortmunder agreed. "And the rye and water."

Rollo considered. "Lotta ice? Clinks a lot?"

"Right again. And the beer and salt."

"Him," Rollo said, with a downturn of the mouth. "What a boon to business he is."

Kelp explained, "Stan's a driver, you see, he's got himself used to not drinking too much."

"I'd bet my money," Rollo said, "he's got a black belt in not drinking too much."

"So that's why the salt," Kelp went on. "He gets a beer, he sips it slow and easy, and when the head's gone he adds a little salt, pep the head right back up again."

"What I like to pep up," Rollo said, "is the cash register. But it takes all kinds. I'll get your drinks."

Rollo turned away, and pulled out a tray, while down at the other end of the bar the regulars had segued in a natural progression into consideration of cold cures. At the moment, they were trying to decide if the honey was supposed to be spread on the body or injected into a vein. Before they'd solved this problem, Rollo had put ice into two gla.s.ses, put the gla.s.ses on the tray, and taken down from the shelf a fresh bottle of some murky dark liquid behind a label reading AMSTERDAM LIQUOR STORE BOURBON - "OUR OWN BRAND."

With the bottle also on the tray, Rollo turned and slid the whole thing toward Dortmunder, saying, "Happy days."

"It's feed a cough," said the first regular.

"Thanks, Rollo.

Dortmunder took the tray and followed Kelp past the regulars, who were now all demonstrating various kinds of cough, and on back beyond the bar and down the hall past the two doors marked with dog silhouettes labeled POINTERS and SETTERS and past the phone booth, where the string dangling from the quarter slot was now so grimy you could barely see it, and on through the green door at the very back, which led into a small square room with a concrete floor. All the walls were completely hidden floor to ceiling by beer and liquor cases, leaving a minimal s.p.a.ce in the middle for a battered old round table with a stained felt top that had once been pool-table green, plus half a dozen chairs. The room had been dark, but when Kelp hit the switch beside the door the scene was illuminated by a bare bulb under a round tin reflector hanging low over the table on a long black wire.

Kelp held the door while Dortmunder carried in the tray and brought it around to the far side of the table and put it down. The chairs facing the door were always the most popular ones, and tended to be taken by the earliest arrivals.

Dortmunder sat in the chair facing the door head-on, while Kelp, to his right, stood a moment to pick up the bottle, study its top, and with admiration say, "Boy, they do a good job. Looks just like a government seal, and you could swear the cap was never opened."

"My ice cubes are melting," Dortmunder commented.

Kelp looked in both gla.s.ses, then said, "Well, John, you know, they would anyway."

"But not alone. My ice cubes don't like to melt alone."

"Gotcha."

Kelp opened the bottle, poured murky liquid over the ice cubes in both gla.s.ses, placed the gla.s.ses on pre-existing circular stain marks on the felt, and put tray and bottle on the floor between their chairs. Then he sat down, as the door opened again, and a stocky open-faced fellow with carroty hair came in, carrying a gla.s.s of beer in one hand and wearing a salt shaker in his shirt pocket. He looked at Dortmunder and Kelp, seemed dissatisfied, and said, "You got here ahead of me."

"Well, we said ten o'clock," Dortmunder said. "It's ten o'clock."

"Hi, Stan," said Kelp.

"Yeah, hi, Andy," said the newcomer, who still seemed dissatisfied. His name was Stan Murch, and when things had to be driven, he was the driver. Taking the seat next to Kelp, so he'd have no worse than his profile to the door, he said, "They're tearin' up Sixth Avenue again. Would you believe it?"

"Yes," Dortmunder said.

Stan lived in the depths of Brooklyn, in Canarsie, with his cabdriver mother, so plotting the ramifications and combinations of travel between his place and anywhere in Manhattan was his ongoing problem and pa.s.sion. Now, sipping in an agitated way at his beer, taking the salt shaker from his pocket and putting it on the table, he said, "So I took the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel, right? This time of night, what else would you do?"

"Exactly," Kelp said.

"From there it's a straight shot," Stan explained. "Up Sixth Avenue, into the park, out at Seventy-second, over to Amsterdam, wham, bam, I'm here."

"That's right," Dortmunder agreed. "You're here."

"But not this time," Stan said darkly, Dortmunder looked again, but he'd been right; Stan was definitely here. He decided to let that go.

Stan said, "This time, I get up into the Twenties, there it is again, those big lumber pieces painted white and red, half of Sixth Avenue all torn up, backhoes and bulldozers and who knows what all inside there, we're down to no lanes. And you know something else?"

"No," Dortmunder said.

"It's always the left side! They go along, a year, two years, the left side of Sixth Avenue all tore up, and then finally they repave it, they take all the barriers away, you figure, now they're gonna do the right side. But no. Nothing happens. Four months, six months, and then bam, they're tearin up the left side again. If they can't do it right, why don't they just quit?"

"Maybe it's a political statement," Kelp suggested, and the door opened, and in came a hearty heavyset fellow in a tan check sports jacket and open-collar shirt. He had a wide pleasant mouth and a big round pleasant nose, and he carried a gla.s.s full of ice cubes that clinked pleasantly as he moved. This was Ralph Winslow, the lockman, who was taking Wally Whistler's place this time because Wally, since their work together at the N-Toy, had fallen upon a mischance. He'd been waiting for a crosstown bus and hardly even noticing the armored car parked there, in the bus stop because it was also in front of the bank, and when the armored car's alarm went off he hadn't at first realized it had anything to do with him, so he was still standing there when the guards came running out of the bank, all of which he was still explaining to various officials deep in the bowels of authority, which meant Ralph Winslow had been phoned and was free.

"Whadaya say, Ralph?"

Kelp said, and Ralph stood a moment, gla.s.s in hand, ice cubes tinkling, as though he were at a c.o.c.ktail party. Then, "I say, evening, gents," he decided, and closed the door.

"Now," Dortmunder said, "all we need is Tiny."

"Oh, he's outside," Ralph said, coming around to sit to Dortmunder's left, where he too could watch the door.

"What, is he getting a drink?"

"Tiny? He's got his drink," Ralph said. "When I came back, he was explaining to some fellas there how you could cure a cold right away by squeezing all the air out of a person."

"Uh oh," Dortmunder said.

"Bad air out, good air in, that's what he was saying," Ralph explained.

Standing, Kelp said, "I'll go get him."

"Good," Dortmunder said.

Kelp left the room, and Ralph said, "I understand this one's out of town."

"Vegas," Dortmunder told him.

Nodding, Ralph said, "Not a bad place, Vegas. Not as good as the old days, when they were going for the high rollers. Back then, you could put on a sheet and. be an oil billionaire and unlock your way through half the safes in town. These days, they've gone family, family oriented, mom and pop and the kids and the recreational vehicle. Your best bet now, out there, is be a midget and dress like a schoolkid off the bus."

"I don't think," Dortmunder said, "it's gone entirely Disneyland."

"No no," Ralph agreed, "they still got all the old stuff, only it's adapted. The ladies on the stroll are all cartoon characters now. Polly Pross, Howdy Hooker."