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Willis look.”
    “And when Bruce Willis gets to be a pasty-faced, old, fat, bald guy, you’ll have it nailed.”
    “Have a little respect, MacDonald.
Today
“I said. “I turned sixty today.”
    “Many happy returns,” he said.
    “Not that
you’d
notice.”
    “I’m here, ain’t I?”
    I looked at my watch. “Yeah. You are.”
    “I even got you something for the occasion.”
    “What?”
    “In my car. Gimme the keys to Mitzi and I’ll move it from my car to yours.”
    “Why don’t you just bring it in—”
    MacDonald stood, shook his head. “Keys.” Held out his hand.
    I produced them. “Back to work,” he said, his hand waving contemptuously. A minute later, I glanced up. MacDonald, darn near staggering under the weight of an enormous cardboard box. It wouldn’t go in the trunk, I could see him judge. He did manage to get it into the back seat, with more than a little bashing and shoving.
    Back inside, sweating, he loosened and pulled off his tie, which was now, beyond the tea stain, nastily soiled from his struggles outside. He loosened the top button of his shirt.
    “Take it off, baby. Take it all off!” Nikki called from behind the counter.
    “You wish!” MacDonald said, and tossed her the tie to throw out.
    I thought I heard
I do
from Nikki’s direction.
    MacDonald turned to me, sat again.
    “I appreciate the gift, Mac. What the hell is it?”
    “For when you get home,” he said.
    “No, seriously, man. What—”
    “It
is
a serious gift,” he said.
    He didn’t smile. Didn’t bristle. MacDonald reached inside the suit jacket he’d hung over one of the chairs, pulled out a notebook, bound with a rubber band. Looked around. Just one customer, way on the other side—the crazy Russian lady, always conducting an invisible string quartet.
    “Something to do with those fabulous babes?” I asked. “Babe-in-a-box?”
    He spoke quietly. “Funny you should put it that way.”

6.
17 July, 2:20 p.m.
New Nam King Buffet
    You could always get a seat—that was one virtue of the place. Shabby, but it was clean, in its way, the smells of bleach, ancient carpet, onions and curry mingling in an unholy olfactory union. And no one knew me here, among the customers at least.
    Midway through the big bowl of chocolate pudding I was downing to celebrate my having been so good at confining myself to veggies, I felt a tickle in my pocket. Flipped my second-gen cell open—I’m not yet smart enough for a smart phone. Gave it my cheeriest “Good afternoon. Jack Minyard speaking.” Lots of Toastmasterly vocal variety and bright cheer. For a while I’d been going with just a snapped
Minyard
, like TV detectives do. Then
Go for Jack
. Both, I’d suddenly realized, I’d picked up from MacDonald, which made me wince at their glibness. So back to the way Mom taught me.
    “Jack…” the voice said slowly. A voice I recognized, but didn’t. Female, fifty-something, I guessed. Question, hesitation hung there. Then: “Jack, I’m so…I just wanted to hear your…and wish you a happy birthday.”
    I smiled. Sat up straight. “Well, thank you so much, it’s…umm, forgive my asking, but I’m not quite sure to whom I’m—”
    Hesitation. Click. I looked, redialed. Nothing.
    My bill came. I looked up. The restaurant’s front door squeaked open.
    A nervous, balding little white guy in an expensive sport coat followed another man in. A man with no nervousness at all. Flamboyant. Gold watch, gold cuff links. And, I saw, a gold tooth. The man I knew as His Eminence.
    I looked down at my bowl of chocolate pudding.

7.
17 July, 4:20 p.m.
Red Line Investigations — Eileen
    I’d cheer myself up, right here in Eileen’s parking lot, I thought, by finding out what MacDonald’s gift was. It wouldn’t be like peeking into presents before the party. What party? Besides, it wasn’t wrapped—just whatever it was, crammed inside a huge cardboard crate that had seen a whole lot of handling. What little printing