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drove out to Kennedy Airport, through a disjointed web of Long Island highways. Max Winters had agreed to come, and was flying in from the Coast. This year, with the best-novel Edgar in the offing, Max was the most important guest the dinner would have, with the possible exception of Ross Craigthorn. Barney felt, through friendship and duty, that it was his place to meet Max at the airport.
    He arrived early and paced the floor of the airline waiting-room until, at last, Max came through the swinging doors, all bushy beard and scraggly hair, looking as if he’d flown from the Coast in a little one-seater plane with an open cockpit.
    “Barney, my boy! I’m glad to see you! What’s been going on back east? Have I missed much? Are you gonna give me an award, after all these years?”
    Barney smiled slightly, as he took the great paw of a hand that Max offered. “It’s always good to see you, Max. I should be asking you how things are on the Coast. That’s where all the action is these days. Do you realise how many nominees we’re getting from out that way?”
    “We’re vital, Barney! Vital! I was up to Berkeley the other day. Wild things going on there!”
    “Demonstrations?”
    “No … not demonstrations. Just thinking. We live in such a massive bone-busting time, I just wish we could get some of this energy on paper! You know, the mysteries we’re writing today, if we’re going to preserve the unity of the form, have got to appeal to the young. We’ve got to reach the kids, and how are we gonna do that?”
    “Save it for the craft session tonight. I’ll put you on first.”
    “Still the same old Barney, aren’t you? The tough private eye image. I thought maybe being exec V.P. had mellowed you a bit.”
    “Max, nothing’s ever going to mellow me.”
    “Find a good woman, and she’ll do it.”
    “When are you going to shave off that damn beard, anyway?”
    “It’s my image, Barney! My image! I got it on the backs of the book jackets and, you know, they have me on these panel discussion shows out on the Coast—and everybody expects me to have a beard. Without the beard, what am I? A weak-chinned middle-aged man. Beards are in, Barney. I might even write an article about it.” Max chuckled and slapped Barney on the back. “You got your car outside?”
    “Yeah, I’m going to give you a real treat, drive you in to New York myself, right to the hotel.”
    “Where you got me staying? One of those new places with all chrome and sealed windows you can’t even open?”
    “That’s right. Just the place for you, Max.”
    They chatted on the ride in, and Barney found that his liking for Max had not dimmed in the year or so since he’d seen him last. Max was a good friend, a good writer, a good talker.
    He saw him to his room, explained about the craft session that evening and then left him to make his way around the city as best he could. It was Thursday, the day before the dinner, and Barney had other chores.
    One of them was to telephone Ross Craigthorn at Amalgamated Broadcasting. He called from a phone in the hotel lobby. It took him a while to get through to the man, and when he did, the voice on the other end was just a little bit testy. “I’m preparing the script for my afternoon taping,” Craigthorn said. “I don’t have too long.”
    “This is Barney Hamet.”
    “I know. The secretary told me who you were.”
    “I’m helping with arrangements for tomorrow night’s dinner; and I just want to make sure you’re clear on everything.”
    “I’ll come around seven or so.”
    “Will your wife be joining you?”
    “No. My wife is …” The pause lengthened before he finished the sentence. “Away.”
    “All right,” Barney said. “I’ll see you tomorrow night, then.”
    He hung up the telephone, walked briskly through the hotel lobby to the street. There were other people to be contacted, but he’d have to wait for most of them until the dinner itself.

6 Victor Jones
    I T HAD NOT