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ping-pong,” which he learned as a thirteen-year-old in a ballroom near the Bois de Boulogne while Paris was flooded with unemployed Czech ping-pong champions after World War II and Vander I was the unofficial New York ambassador to France. After three tiresome years at Princeton, during which he hustled his classmates out of their spending money playing ping-pong with them sitting on a stool, he fell in with a group of impoverished actors, brought a production of Alfred Jarry to New York, and became known as the “Angel Child.”
    The knocking persisted from the kitchen. Vander opened the dumbwaiter; the Chinaman tumbled out, grease on his bodyshirt, the mop over one eye. Vander prepared to take the Chinaman by a suspender and stuff him back into the shaft.
    â€œDon’t,” the Chinaman said, his one visible eye trained on Vander. “Another white man touched me before on the cheek, a cop with pretty vines, and hell regret the wound he made coming out of his mama’s belly. This cop has a Puerto Rican sidekick, a cripple. They’ll both be eating grass.”
    â€œChino, did you assault any of my doormen? Have you been bruising skulls?”
    â€œNot me. I got in through the basement. I had to find the right dumbwaiter line. Vander, my knees are sore. I’m not used to hugging wires.”
    â€œWho sent you? Zorro? You can tell him I’m not taking his money any more.”
    â€œTell him yourself. I don’t do business in dumbwaiters. I came for Odette. Where is she? In the tub?”
    Vander had to giggle. “You shouldn’t mess with her underwear, Chino. She’s been promising to scratch out your eyes.”
    â€œThat’s fine with me.”
    The Chinaman spread his fingers around his chin and shouted at Vander’s ceilings for Odette.
    â€œDon’t waste your lungs. She’s with her sweethearts. She went to The Dwarf.”
    The Chinaman saw for himself. Raising the shreds of his mop so he could have two free eyes, he tracked across the living room, opened closets double his own height, investigated each of Vander’s four tubs. The fineries of perfumed soap in the shape of a yellow egg and abundant robes on a silver hook appealed to him. He fondled the egg, sniffed the robes for traces of Odette. Satisfied she wasn’t around, he palmed Vander’s doorknob.
    Vander got between the Chinaman and the door. “Chino, you’d make me happier if you tried the dumbwaiter again. My neighbors might not appreciate your looks.”
    The Chinaman moved Vander with a pinch on the sleeve. “Vander, my policy is never go the same way twice. It hurts your luck.”
    â€œThen take off that toupee. You’ll scare my elevator man.”
    The Chinaman carried the mop under his arm, his own hair sitting high on his scalp. Vander noticed little improvement; the loss of a toupee only accented the tight lines that went from the Chinaman’s ears, over his cheeks, and into his eyes. Grim markings, Vander thought. He couldn’t relax until the elevator dropped below his floor. He dialed Pimloe at the First Deputy’s office. He rasped into the phone.
    â€œYou call that protection, Herbert? He was here … not Zorro, the chink. He almost tore my arm. Herbert, I didn’t bargain for this. You were supposed to have a man outside twenty-four hours. I’ve had enough to do with shamuses. Your boy was here. Coen. He couldn’t keep his eyes off Odile … what? Herbert, I’m not her trainer. I can’t shackle Odile … Herbert, she hasn’t seen Zorro. Wouldn’t I know? I’d break her toes if she lied to me … Never mind. I don’t want Chinamen in my dumbwaiter any more. Attend to him first. Goodbye.”
    The Chinaman had already wrecked Vander’s appetite. He wouldn’t have fresh croissants and madeleines brought up from the pâtisserie. He would swallow ordinary bread today.

4 Coen found