I go back into The Topaz. Fortunately, most of the staff has gone home. Soon I will go to the rest room, inspect my new wounds and clean myself up. This is getting to be a habit, for a man who has habits enough. But first I go to my tiny, very efficient office, look up the Police Department’s number and make a phone call.

“Hello, this is Alberto DiSibio,” I say. “I just discovered that my car has been stolen. AD5N508.”

“Yes, Mr. DiSibio,” the desk sergeant answers. “What is the address to which it’s registered?”

“The registration is in the car. I think I put down my city house.”

“1237 Howe Street?”

I hang up and jot the address on my blotter.