I leave the men’s room, somewhat repaired. Perhaps now is the time to return the stolen money to Mr. Otellio? I’ll slip it into the leather moneybag under his bookshelf. If he doesn’t notice it, it will get mixed in with tonight’s receipts. If he does notice it, he’ll think he overlooked it in his drunken horniness Thursday night.

I go to my office, which is barely large enough for my hernia-causing steel desk. I’ve remounted one of its extension trays upside-down for discrete storage of small necessaries such as spare cuff-links and dope. I get the money from it and head for the back stairs.

But, incredibly, not everybody has left. Stephen O’Shea is a bit deaf from a hard life, and he raises his voice accordingly; “…his jacket missin’” drifts down the stairs.

I pause, and wonder: If Maryanne didn’t want the money, why did she steal it? Who would benefit from its absence? My eye falls on our business license, hanging framed in the back hall. Under Vincenzo’s name; ‘Carpozi Enterprises.’

Who?