Benny needed a hundred bucks, and fast.

Failing that, he'd be happy to take fifty.

Luckily, Benny had a sideline. The same mental agility that allowed him to handicap horses, and might have stood him in good stead had it not been accompanied by the general good luck of your average fruit fly, allowed him to construct crossword puzzles, a skill both scorned and envied by his peers, who didn't understand, but were nonetheless happy to be paid off by the fruits of his labors.

Benny had one such fruit waiting in the computer right now. He printed it out, wondering wistfully as he always did on such occasions just how much he might get for hocking his computer instead of using it to print crosswords. As usual, he stifled the notion, printed the puzzle like a good boy. He crept out the door of his rented room in Hoboken, tiptoed past the door of the landlady he hadn't paid in two months, went outside, and caught the PATH train to New York.

Wally Embers, of Astroturf Publishing, was glad to see him, largely because Benny didn't owe Wally any money. Benny sold Wally crossword puzzles that the editor bought outright, cash on the spot, no royalties, no advance. Neither man ever owed the other a cent. In Benny's case, that made Wally unique.

Wally was working on a layout when Benny hunted him up in the hole-in-the-wall office that served as his publishing house.

"Look what the cat dragged in. You got a puzzle for me?"

"You bet."

"Eleven by eleven?"

"Fifteen by fifteen."

"I don't need a whole page."

"But I bet it would fit."

"That's not the question. The question is, why would I pay fifty bucks for a fifteen by fifteen, when I can pay twenty bucks for an eleven by eleven?"

"I take it the answer isn't 'because you're a nice guy.' How about because it's less work."

"How is that less work?"

"Because you don't have an eleven-by-eleven puzzle. It's easier for you to cut half a page out of the story that's leaving you this eleven-by-eleven space. Plus you save the two cents a word you're paying the writer."

"Three cents."

"Oh, big spender. Okay, so you do the math. See how much buying my puzzle-which is right here, in hand, ready to go-is gonna actually cost you, when you factor in half a page saved at three cents a word."

"You know, if you put as much effort into legitimate business, you'd be rich."

"So they tell me."

Wally looked the puzzle over, cut a check.

"You can't pay cash?"

"You can't go to the bank?"

"My creditors are always waiting at the bank."

Wally chuckled dutifully. That was one of those jokes that was probably true.

Benny took the check, said, "Hey! Forty bucks? What the hell is that?"

Wally shrugged. "It's a compromise. I want a twenty-dollar puzzle. You want to sell me a fifty-dollar puzzle. That's more work for me, plus I won't save thirty bucks at three cents a word. I'm more than splitting the difference. I would say it's damn decent."

"It's still a fifteen-by-fifteen puzzle."

"Which I don't need."

"I could always sell it to somebody else."

"Who?"

"I don't know."

"Exactly."

Benny folded the check, stuck it in his pocket. "You're robbing me blind, Wally." A newspaper on the editor's desk caught his eye. "What's that?"

Wally looked. "Oh. You know the Puzzle Lady, does the daily column? She's got two today."

"So?"

"So, how the hell'd she do that? I'm always interested in how people get publicity. And it's always the same thing. Human interest angle. Gets 'em every time. You might want to give it some thought."

Benny wasn't listening. He was staring at the puzzle in the paper. "That's funny."

"What's funny?"

"Son of a bitch!"

Chapter 14.

THE MAN LOOKED like a crook. There was no other way to say it. He had a high forehead, a thinning hairline, a narrow face, a trim mustache, and shifty eyes. The type of guy you'd pick out of a police lineup. Even if you didn't recognize him. Figuring he must be guilty of something.

Buddy seemed to think so. The toy poodle squirmed in Cora's arms as if eager to get at the intruder.

Cora made no move to let the man in. For once she wished Buddy were a Rottweiler, snarling on his iron leash. "Yes?" she demanded, in as discouraging a tone as she could muster.

He looked up at her from the stoop. It occurred to Cora he'd have been looking up at her even had they been on the same level. A short man, his head permanently cocked to one side, as if from a lifetime of looking up at people.

"Miss Felton? Miss Cora Felton?"

It was a question Cora didn't want to answer. The type of question you said yes to and the next thing you knew you were named corespondent in a divorce complaint.

"What do you want?"

"I want to see Cora Felton. That would be you. It would be rather silly to pretend not to be, with your picture in the national news."

"You're not answering my question."

"What do I want with you? My name is Benny Southstreet. I'm a crossword puzzle constructor. Perhaps you're familiar with my work."

"I can assure you I'm not."

"That's weird."

"Not really. I know a lot less puzzles than you think."

"Fewer."

"Huh?"

"Fewer puzzles. As I'm sure you know."

Buddy, offended on his owner's behalf, contributed a warning growl.

Cora soothed the tiny poodle, and favored Benny Southstreet with an evil eye usually reserved for wayward husbands. "I'm terribly sorry. I don't review people's puzzles. I don't introduce people to Will Shortz."

"I know Will."

"Oh?"

"At least, I've met him. At the tournament. I'm not sure he'd remember me."

That was good. Cora's own conversations with Will Shortz had consisted largely of trying to avoid talking shop.

"At the risk of seeming redundant, what do you want?"

"Repetitive."

"Huh?"

"Not redundant. Repetitive." Benny Southstreet frowned. "Are you sure you're Cora Felton?"

"Not at all. In fact, now that you mention it, I'm pretty sure I'm not. Why don't you try the house down the road."

"I was told you have a sense of humor."

"By who?"

"By whom. I see. You're doing it deliberately, to throw me off the scent. Well, it's not going to work. You're the Puzzle Lady, all right. No matter what verbal misconstructions you concoct."

Cora concocted a verbal misconstruction usually not heard outside of a penitentiary shower room.

Benny took a step back. "I beg your pardon?"

"You have it. Now, unless you'd care to attempt the contortion I suggested, perhaps you'd prefer to take a hike."

Benny smiled. "Nice try. But you know perfectly well who I am, and perfectly well why I'm here."

"Of course. Because I'm psychic." Cora put her hand to her head. "Wait, wait. It's coming to me. You're the serial rapist we were warned about."

"Very funny."

"You're not? Damn. That's disappointing. Well, do you know a serial rapist? I've been rather lonely lately."

"Any time you get good and ready, you wanna tell me why you stole my puzzle?"

"What, are you nuts? I never stole any puzzle."

" 'My Bad.' "

"Damn right, you're bad. You're also demented."

"Ha-ha. You know what I'm talking about. You changed a couple of the first clues, and a few at the end. Like Invasion site of 2003 for IRAQ instead of Persia today. As if that would disguise the fact that you ripped me off. It just shows you knew what you were doing."

"I don't even know what I'm hearing. What the hell are you talking about?"

"And then you change the theme entry from a clever little rhyme with a humorous twist to a boring, pathetic apology. It's embarrassing to claim I wrote the damn thing. I have to keep explaining it's not my fault."

"Maybe you can write a little puzzle that does that."

Benny stared at her. "Talk about divas! I've met rude celebrities before, but you take the cake! Christ, lady, didn't you hear what I just said?"

"I heard you. I've seen you. And I'm done with you." Cora chucked the little poodle under the chin. "Now get lost before I sic Cujo here on you."

Chapter 15.

MIMI MADE UP her mind. She'd been stewing about it all day, ever since she dropped Chuck off at the train. Somehow, she'd managed to hold off during breakfast. And then during the ride in the car. Of course, she didn't want to talk in front of the child. Not that the child could understand, but still. That had been sufficient excuse to put off the decision.

The night before, he'd come home drunk-well, not drunk drunk, but certainly tipsy-after his evening out. She couldn't say anything then. Break in on his mood. When he'd tumbled into bed and gone right to sleep, she'd been almost grateful.

What a day. What an awful day. This morning she'd peeked under the blotter, to see if it was still there. And it was. She'd barely heard anything the other women said in the bakery. All she could think about was the money. She'd have to ask him about it. There was no way out. She had to ask him. And no matter what he said, it would be bad. Because she'd have to explain how she found it. It was too much on top of the dented fender incident. He'd been so good about that. To try his patience with something else. He'd be angry. Very angry.

Still, he had the money. He was the one in the wrong. How could he justify that? Was it her fault for pointing out his transgression? Could he really hold that against her?

Of course he could. He could hold anything against her if he wanted to. That was the way men were. Or at least the way Chuck was. If he had a bad day, it was her fault.