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you’ve got there,” he said.
    “Quite a gal,” repeated Max. For several seconds he looked at Harry, face expressionless.
What is he thinking?
I wondered.
    Then he smiled. “Well, old friend,” he said, “I thank you for coming.”
    “My pleasure, pal,” Harry replied expansively.
    Max gestured toward the chairs. “Shall we?” he inquired.
    Harry’s smile was wry; at least, he thought it was. “That’s what I’m here for,” he responded.
    He moved to the chair, where he had set down his attaché case and hat, which he picked up and placed on the table.
    In the meantime, Max had headed for the bar. Glancing over, Harry noticed (as I did, worriedly) his sluggish gait and grimaced to himself.
    “Your usual Scotch?” asked Max.
    “No, no, just a diet soda if you have it,” Harry answered. “Too early for the hard stuff.”
    Max peered beneath the bar and came up with a can of Diet Coke. “Are you hungry?” he asked.
    Harry shook his head. “No. Had my little health-food breakfast before I left Boston.”
    Max pulled the can tab free and asked, “Why Boston?” He picked up the silver tongs to put ice cubes in a glass.
    “Opening tonight,” said Harry. “Client of mine.”
    “Sounds exciting,” commented Max.
    “It is—for him,” said Harry. “His first play. A murder mystery.”
    “Never can believe them,” Max replied; it was a remark immersed in irony, considering what was about to happen.
    “Neither can I,” fawned Harry. “But the public likes ‘em if they’re well done. This one is.”
    “Glad to hear it,” Max responded, starting over with the glass of Diet Coke on ice cubes. Harry hesitated, then apparently felt compelled to say, “You’re movin’ kind o’ slow, pal.”
    “Am I?” Max reached the chairs and handed the drink to Harry.
    “Thanks, Max,” Harry murmured, watching Max settle into the other chair with a faint, but unmistakably weary, groan.
What’s going on? I
thought;
I’ve never seen him look so bad
.
    Harry winced at the sight but managed a smile as Max looked over at him. He held the glass up toastingly. “To the best,” he said.
    Max appeared amused as Harry took a sip of Diet Coke, then set the glass down on the table. Max lifted a cigar box from the table and raised its lid, holding it out to Harry, who gestured
no
. “That stuff’ll kill you,” he remarked; another inadvertently ironic statement.
    “The least of my problems at the moment,” Max replied.
    His voice sounded so tired that Harry nearly commented on it, I noted. Then, changing direction, Harry gestured toward the casket, grinning. “Love that figure in there,” he said. “A new gimmick maybe?”
    Max shook his head. “Just wanted to see what I’d look like.”
    “Jesus Christ.”
Harry made a face. “Cassandra told me that, but I couldn’t really believe her.”
    “Why not?” asked Max in mild surprise.
    Harry looked askance at him.
“Max,”
he said.
    “My future home inside my present one,” Max said. “Seems logical to me.”
    “Come on.” Clearly, Harry still had trouble believing it; but then, he was unable to approach the thinking of a Delacorte.
    Max smiled tiredly, flexing his fingers with effort, wincing as he did. Again I noted Harry on the verge of saying something, then discarding the idea. He took another sip of Diet Coke and set the glass back down. “All right,” he said. “Shall we get on with it?”
    The lid of Pandora’s box was about to be raised.

chapter 6
    No, wait. Before we do,” said Harry. I saw him brace himself. “You know Cassandra’s really worried about you.”
    “She’s said so,” Max acknowledged.
    “Said
so?” Harry frowned. “You don’t believe her?”
    Max did not reply. Stubbing out his cigar on an ashtray, he reached down beside himself on the chair and picked up a red billiard ball; I hadn’t noticed it there. (Well, my observation powers weren’t
perfect
, you know, as you will see.)
    Tossing the ball into his