Old Mrs. Bachrach tottered, panting, across the vast room inhabited by the clerical staff of the brokerage firm. Like a flattened ship’s prow, a broad parcel wound voluminously with brown paper and clutched against her chest advanced before her. The tape fastening the ends broke loose and the paper unwound until she had a long tail of it drifting behind her like a Chinese dragon in a New Year’s parade.

B. J. Maxwell hurried to her and grabbed it a moment before the whole thing was due to disintegrate. She thrust it at him with a merry gasp. “I knew you’d catch us in time!” Her slightly askew features betrayed her unshakeable good humor as she blew a wisp of frizzled hair away from her left eye.

His exasperation melted. Her constant cheer, like a force, kept him rushing to aid, to open, to carry, to shield Mrs. Naomi Bachrach from the difficulties she chronically attracted in her headlong progress through her happy world. He sometimes thought enviously of her untroubled point of view.

“B. J.,” she began as he piloted her to a comfortable chair in the cubicle which served as his office. “Of all my friends, I think you’re truly the nicest one--now I mean this!” She pressed a hand to her billowing chest. “No matter how often I call, you stop and listen to my silly chatter when I know you’re busy with important things! No, I know it’s true, don’t try to be gallant! Therefore, dearest B. J., I’ve decided that you’re the one to trust with the care of my last little picture while I go away on my cruise.” Gasping, she sank back into her chair, having forgotten to breathe during her determined speech.

B. J. blinked behind wire rimmed glasses. Finally he pointed at the bundle propped against his desk. “It’s a picture?”

“Yes, dear. I’ve been told it’s worth something and I don’t like going away leaving it unlooked-after.”

He gazed at it in dismay. “It’s pretty large, Naomi. I don’t have a place to store something that size in my office, and if it’s val--”

Naomi batted to hold back tears. “Just for two weeks? I saw a program on TV about a cruise to Hawaii, how healthy the air was--it’s so pretty there!--and I know that’s what I need. I’m sure that if I go on this cruise I’ll feel better again, right away.”

B. J. bit his lip and tried not to notice the incipient tears, but of course, he had noticed them. “You’re not feeling well? Have you seen a doctor?”

“I talked to Dr. Sams. He treats all my friends. Not you, of course. I mean, all my other friends--”

“Surely you don’t mean a veterinarian. A cat doctor?” B. J. had long ago discovered that, except for himself, all her friends were cats. Mrs. Bachrach had found four-legged creatures much more tolerant of her particular quirks than the two-legged creatures of her acquaintance. B. J. could hardly blame her for her preference.

“Why, that’s just what he is! Aren’t you clever? Yes, and devoted to his profession. I’ve often wished that I could’ve learned to be a veterinarian when I was young. To take such expert care of little kitties like he does... He told me he was sure I was doing the right thing.”

“Well, that depends on what’s wrong, don’t you think? Ah, what is wrong?” He was keenly aware how brave he was to ask that question. What if it was one of those terrifying female things?

“Nothing to worry about, dear, I just don’t feel quite right. Dr. Sams says I probably just need a vacation. And you know, as soon as he said that, I realized that I couldn’t remember the last time I went somewhere. And the pictures of Hawaii looked so heavenly...” she shivered with pleasure, sending her powdered flesh into gelatinous waves.

She touched the back of his hand. “If you’ll just keep my little picture safe for me so that I can go away with peace of mind. Please, B. J.? I couldn’t rest at night, even in Hawaii, if I had to worry about it.”

He gazed helplessly into eyes as blue and untainted as a country brook, where lurked a bottomless supply of trust for all those who occupied her rose-tinted world--namely him, her cats, and now, it seemed, this Dr. Sams. And evidently a television pitchman who’d told her to sail to Hawaii. Well, she could’ve gotten worse advice. He sighed.

“You’re sure you’ve got nothing a--uh--people doctor should check out? You’re not feeling really ill?”

“Noooooh! And it’s going to be so much fun. And, oh, yes. I’ll need some money.”

He steeled himself, hoping he wouldn’t have to advance her a loan from his own limp pockets, but knowing very well that he’d help her if necessary. “How much?”

A giggle lurked behind the frown she now produced for his benefit--she was trying to look as if she was thinking carefully, a process he’d been attempting to teach her for years. “About--two hundred dollars?”

He blinked. “This cruise costs only two hundred dollars?”

“Don’t be silly.” Now she giggled out loud. “I already paid for the cruise out of my household money. It took all I had, though, and I’d like just a bit more. I want to bring back presents. For my friends, to make up for leaving the sweet dears behind.”

Two hundred dollars to buy guilt presents for cats, he thought, groaning to himself, but relieved. It could’ve been worse. He wrote the check. He’d been handling Mrs. Bachrach’s financial affairs since her husband, an antiques dealer, had died eight years ago. She received a modest income from her husband’s investments, but since her needs almost completely involved a slavish devotion to her feline "friends" and few extravagances, she managed fairly well.

“You take such good care of me, B. J.” She stood and gave him a fond peck on the cheek, leaving behind a fuchsia smear.

B. J. ushered her out of the brokerage firm to the bank in the same building, making sure she had no difficulty cashing the check, and put her safely into a taxi. As he waved farewell, he wondered where he could stow that big package--which was probably only a blown-up photo of her favorite cat.

In the end, he took it home and shoved it under his bed. His wife hardly heard his explanations, and the whole matter was forgotten by bedtime.

Eight days later, B. J. arrived at work in time to hear his secretary receiving the news by telephone that Mrs. Bachrach had died in her sleep off the coast of Oahu. The ship’s doctor posthumously diagnosed her trouble as an enlarged heart that had finally stopped. Her body was being shipped home by air. Even after sharing a weepy lunch with his secretary, who’d liked the elderly lady as much as he had, the picture in his possession eluded his thoughts until a few nights later.

B. J.’s wife, Joyce, reminded him of it over the dinner she’d thrown together after a long fruitless day of staring at the typewriter. Joyce was a novelist-to-be.

“You can be in charge of tomorrow night’s dinner, if you think you can do better on our budget,” she snarled as she watched her husband poke at the green-coated pasta with a fork.

In all fairness to Joyce, B. J. had begun the evening with the news that things at his office had progressed...or rather, declined...to the disastrous point where B. J. and Joyce must soon file for personal bankruptcy. His income had been failing to cover more than a fraction of their expenses for too long. That morning, his manager had declared that by the end of the month, B. J. must repay the now astronomical total of sums the firm had been steadily advancing him against future earnings. Unless B. J. could come up with some amazingly profitable new accounts in record time... B. J.’s silence when he reached that point in his speech revealed how hopeless he felt his prospects were.

Joyce, eyes hot with bitter tears, had said, “Correct me if I’m wrong, you stupid jerk, but doesn’t filing for bankruptcy mean you can never work as a stockbroker again?” B. J. felt tears creep into his own eyes as he had to nod yes.

“And, of course,” Joyce’s tone was now leaden with sarcasm, “you have absolutely no clue how to work at any other profession. Right? Right?!”

Again, B. J. could only nod.

Joyce’s thoughts appeared to choke her for some moments. Then she managed to ask, “And that stupid stock market research letter you waste your working hours writing every day? The one you promised was going to make you famous and us rich. How many subscriptions have you gotten for that?”

B. J. hurriedly shoveled a largish amount of pasta into his mouth and struggled to smile as he chewed. And chewed. After he swallowed, he said, “Honey, you know yourself how tough it is to launch yourself as a writer. It’s the same in getting recognition as a stock market expert.”

“Expert, my butt! You can’t even scrape together enough money to buy us decent food. Renee, down the hall, eats better than we do, and she makes minimum wage.”

“Renee works in a restaurant. She brings leftovers home in her handbag. Maybe if you got a part-time job--”

“--Maybe that stupid cat picture upstairs is worth some money. She isn’t coming back for it,” she interrupted venomously. “Even if we could find a buyer, the proceeds would probably cover only a fast food meal, but anything’s better than starving.”

She screwed up her mouth at him, making a kissing noise, and whined, “One last meal before being thrown out on the street, huh, please, B. J.?” She threw her fork at him.

B. J. recoiled. “I forgot all about that.” He stared at his wife, suddenly anxious. “You haven’t touched it, have you?”

“Who has the time? I work longer hours than you do, and I don’t have a secretary to help me. Even with her help you’ve failed because you wasted time catering to old bags like Naomi Bachrach. It should be a relief to you that she finally kicked off. Honestly, B. J., my dream means nothing to you. How are we going to live until I make it big?!” She let out a sob.

“I take it this means you still refuse to get a paying job--” he began stiffly, but Joyce had already moved on to her next thought, which was--”Wonder what that picture is, exactly?”

Joyce rushed upstairs. B. J. sprinted anxiously behind. Scrabbling under the unkempt bedclothes, panting as she tugged out the heavy parcel, Joyce ripped away the wrapping. B. J. hovered, arms outstretched as if to protect the painting from his wife...until he saw what it was.

Joyce sucked in her breath. B. J. whimpered, “My God.”

She lurched to her feet and dropped it onto the bed.

“I’m glad we didn’t look before. I would never have slept, knowing what it was--” he gasped.

“What is it, though?” breathed Joyce.

“It looks like a collage of oil sketches. Not a proper painting, I’d guess, but studies. Elaborate sketches, of different poses for...it looks like...the Mona Lisa! He probably picked the one he liked, then painted her that way, full size, on a separate canvas.”

“Is it real?”

“Why would Mrs. Bachrach bother with something like this if it wasn’t real? She only cared about cats, she wouldn’t have bought anything unless it had a cat in it. In fact, she probably never bought this--I’ll bet it belonged to her husband. He was an antiques dealer.”

“Oh, what do you know. Good ol’ B.J.--expert bullshit artist and time waster,” she sneered.

B. J.’s excitement cooled. “Doesn’t matter what I think, anyway. It isn’t ours. It goes into her estate.”

Joyce studied her husband. After a minute, she stalked out of the bedroom, returning to her cold dinner. They said nothing to each other for the rest of the night.

Two bleak weeks passed, and then B. J. received a visit from a young man, a lawyer, the executor of Mrs. Bachrach’s estate. He was the son of her deceased husband’s best friend, as it turned out, and, like B. J., remembered the old lady fondly.

“Do you know who inherits it all?” he said, after introductions and some tender sentiments had produced a companionable atmosphere. “Some ‘Sams’ character who runs a cat hospital out in Queens.”

“The vet?” B. J. was at first startled, although on reflection, it didn’t seem so odd. “She did admire his work. I remember her saying she wished she’d been a vet like him.”

“He’s a vet, all right,” growled the young man, whose name was Brian McKee. “A veteran of the correspondence school for con artists and conscienceless rats.”

B. J. blinked.

“I went to his place to inform him about being her beneficiary. Turned out, he’d been waiting for me. The cruise people had notified him of her death. She’d left her cats with him and had given his name to the travel agency, in case of an emergency. Her bequest was intended to finance her cats’ care, to refurbish his hospital, and to establish a fund for any stray cats he might run across that need help. She evidently envisioned him as some sort of General of a Feline Salvation Army. Hmmph! Well, you’ll meet him. He wants all the stocks and whatever else is in her account to be liquidated.”

“He’ll have forms to fill out.”

“He expects that. He said he intends selling everything of hers--house, furniture...” Brian looked as if he had a bad taste in his mouth. “Should’ve seen his ‘hospital.’ Every animal there’ll be lucky to see next Christmas, unless they can survive filth. She said she wants her money to be used to help as many ‘unfortunate dears’ as possible--her exact words. Well, if they weren’t unfortunate before, they will be after he takes care of ‘em.”

“You seem pretty sure of this,” ventured B. J. uncomfortably. “Isn’t there anything you can do?”

“Like what? She had no family. Who’s to object?”

After some silence, B. J. asked, remembering the painting, “Did she, uh, leave anything else besides her house, furniture, and uh, stock account?”

“Well, she’d been reputed to possess a small collection of old paintings and sketches from well known artists.”

“Wh-what do you mean, reputed?”

“Well, they were listed in her will. But when I went to inspect her house, none could be found. After wasting a few days trying to track them down, I asked Sams if he knew anything about them. He got this peculiar look on his face, so I prodded. He admitted she’d been selling them off one by one and giving him the proceeds. I tell you, if I’d been an heir, I’d have taken him to court so fast--well, let’s just say he didn’t impress me as an upright citizen. Maybe it was the way he grinned while he told me about it. I asked him what he’d spent the money on, obviously it wasn’t on that ramshackle hospital. He told me--snickering, if you can believe it--‘Emergencies.’"

Right then, B. J. opened his mouth to tell Brian about the painting in his possession. But Brian chose that same moment to look him in the eye and, after swallowing hard from emotion, say, “She thought you were the best. At our yearly meetings to discuss her will, she always mentioned you, how kind you were, listening to her ramble on over the phone when she was lonely. She knew her business wasn’t profitable enough to get that kind of attention from you. She thought of you as her closest friend, not just her broker.”

He reddened and went on in a lower voice. “I wish I could say the same for myself. I liked her, but I have to admit, I lost patience when she’d go on and on about all that cat stuff--I cut her off, more often than not. I--I feel I’m partly to blame that she got taken in by that weasel vet. It burns me to think of him living the good life with her money. Her house was full of antiques that’ll bring in a good amount. Those cats will never benefit from one penny!”

Brian vented his frustration, and possibly his disappointment in himself, by ranting more bitter invective against Sams. It was a mercy the poor woman had died before discovering how taken in she’d been, he supposed as he finally subsided.

When Brian left, they clasped hands tightly, bonded in mutual hatred of Dr. Sams and affection for the kindly, deluded Mrs. Bachrach. It was only some moments later that B. J. realized he hadn’t mentioned the painting in his possession. He sat staring at Brian’s card for some minutes, but eventually only dropped it into his top desk drawer.

That night, after B. J. shared Brian’s news with Joyce, they picked at their watery spaghetti in an atmosphere that had been growing more hostile each day since the uncovering of Mrs. Bachrach’s painting...and of their need to declare bankruptcy.

Joyce had dusted the painting and propped it against the wall where a fireplace would’ve been, if they could’ve afforded an apartment with a fireplace. Its presence in the living room didn’t improve matters. It was with icily polite murmurs that he and Joyce went up to bed--together but separate.

Minutes lengthened into hours. B. J. couldn’t sleep. He tossed and squirmed on his side of the bed, unable to push Brian’s conversation from his mind. He wished he’d asked Brian how many paintings Mrs. Bachrach had owned before selling them. He remembered her calling the one he now had her ‘last little picture.’ He wondered how many tens of thousands of her dollars Dr. Sams had squandered, and what he’d spent them on. Women, probably. Luscious food. Women... Food...

He’d just begun drifting off to sleep, with yowls of starving kitties creeping into his dreams, when a sharp noise from downstairs woke him.

He crept from the bed. After hearing another muted bump, he woke Joyce by clamping her mouth shut with his hand. Her eyes flashed open and she stared up at him in astonished fury. When another thud from downstairs brought knowledge and tension into her gaze, he lifted his hand away.

After two or three deep breaths that were meant to be calming, B. J. tiptoed down the carpeted stairs. Light from a streetlamp filtered through the thin living room curtains to reveal a stodgy figure wearing a stocking mask holding Mrs. Bachrach’s painting up to the faint light as if trying to make out details.

In spite of his panic, B. J. noted that the man was grasping the painting with both hands--not surprisingly, as the ornately framed piece was heavy. Realizing that if the intruder had a gun, it at least wasn’t in his hands, B. J. flipped on the overhead light--and met Joe Alvione. A slightly huffy Joe Alvione, after he got over his fright.

“You coulda’ scared me to death, you moron, sneakin’ up on me! Christ!” Joe lowered the painting gingerly to the ground. Within seconds, the two men were grappling on the carpet, grunting with exertion, and bumping painfully into furniture legs.

“Stop it! Stop it!” came a piercing shriek.

Both men paused to look up. Joyce hovered over them. Poised high to smash a head--or both heads, B. J. wasn’t sure which--was a steel-shafted number-one wood golf club gripped in her white-knuckled hands. The expression on her face brought them scrambling to their feet.

Joe lifted shaking hands and began backing away. “Now, missus...”

“Stop right there!” she screamed.

He stopped.

“Now--now, calm down, darling,” begged B. J. in a quavery voice.

“Shut up!”

He blinked and his mouth slowly shut.

A glint entered Joe’s eyes. Without permission he lowered his hands and slowly straightened himself.

“Take off the mask,” she hissed at Joe.

“Aw, now, missus,” whined Joe.

“DO IT!”

He whipped the stocking from his face.

“You looked better with it on,” she sneered.

Joe whistled softly. “A firebreather.” He glanced sympathetically at B. J.

“What’s your name?” asked B. J., trying to appear as if he were in charge.

Joe sighed. “Guess you could ID me, anyway.” He told them his name. “And I got no gun on me, so you can relax, lady. A piece means extra time, an’ I ain’t stupid. Wanta search to make sure, be my guest.” He lifted his arms invitingly away from his portly figure. He wore a red plaid flannel shirt, baggy green work pants, and pristine white sneakers with the words, ‘cross-trainer,’ printed across the tongues. He looked like a grocer. “Give the club a rest, lady. Believe me, I’ll stay put. I don’t want you making no pumpkin pie outta my skull.”

Joyce lowered the club slowly. B. J. relaxed slightly and gave Joe a covert grimace of gratitude.

“So,” began Joe. “Where’d a couple a’ losers like you pick up a hot item like that? Izzit for real?”

Joyce bristled. “Who’s a loser!”

Joe slid his eyes around the room in a pointedly appraising scan of their living quarters, but wisely declined to answer.

B. J. examined their crook doubtfully. “Are you an--an art thief, Joe?”

Joe shot him a sarcastic look. “If I was, I wouldn’t be here, would I? Hey, I know my limitations, but I ain’t lived my whole life in a brown paper bag. The Mona Lisa ain’t izzackly an obscure hunk a’ art.”

Joyce lifted a haughty eyebrow. “The painting’s ours. We inherited it.”

Joe’s mouth twisted. “Save it, Missus. That item’s so hot it burnt my fingers just holding it.”

Joyce’s eyes narrowed as she stared at Joe, but he stared back, undaunted.

Joyce swiveled her gaze speculatively towards B. J. At that moment he could feel the painting turning "hot," just as if Joyce had grabbed it and run with it out the front door--and she hadn’t moved.

His head began to move involuntarily from side to side. “No, Joyce,” said B. J. “Nuh-uh. Don’t even think--”

She interrupted. “Do you--would you happen to know where a painting like this could be sold, Mr. Alvione?”

Joe crossed his arms. “Oh, it’s ‘Mr. Alvione,’ is it?” He shrugged. “Could be. Could be I could think better if that golf club were put away somewheres.”

Joyce flung it across the room where it smashed into a lamp. “Would you like some coffee, Mr. Alvione?”

Joe glanced shrewdly at B. J. “Her coffee worth drinking?”

B. J. shook his head, hardly realizing what he was doing.

“B. J.!” snarled his wife.

“You better make it,” commanded Joe. B. J. left the room in a daze.

When he returned, tray in hand with three steaming cups of coffee, Joe had made himself comfortable in B. J.’s favorite chair, and Joyce had swept up the pieces of glass from the broken lamp and disposed of them. He handed cups around, feeling like Alice at the Queen’s tea party, his head hunched down between his shoulders in anticipation of the ax.

Without consulting B. J., Joyce and Joe reached an agreement on percentages. Since Joyce was understandably reluctant to allow Joe to take the painting with him to show a certain big-time art fence he said he had in mind, Joyce took some photos of it in different lights and angles. Joe departed with the film, promising to call in a few days.

B. J. went to work the next morning, but felt surrounded by a fog, hardly aware of his own actions--a feeling he began to get used to as day followed day.

Joe returned as promised, a deal was confirmed, and the painting was exchanged for a certain amount of money four days later. To B. J. it seemed a shockingly enormous amount of money, even after Joe’s cut.

To B. J.’s surprise, Joyce immediately handed a large portion of it to B. J. and told him in snarling tones what she wanted done with it. He obeyed. The next day he paid back in full the deficit he owed his brokerage firm, eliminating their need to file for bankruptcy.

The atmosphere at home became kinder when the painting left their living room and the threat of bankruptcy left their lives. Joyce began consulting a cookbook and elevated the quality of their diet, and also began initiating a few activities in bed that B. J. had nearly forgotten existed. B. J. perked up at these benefits, and eventually formed the useful habit of repeating to himself Brian’s comments about the infamous Dr. Sams whenever guilt threatened his growing complacency.

Then Lady Luck, always capricious, turned her attention to the Maxwells.

First, B. J. sold an article to a prestigious financial newspaper. Soon after, to his astonishment, they asked for two more. After he delivered those, his editor proposed a lucrative contract for a weekly column, promising that he could advertise his market advice newsletter in the column. A few months later, B. J.’s column became syndicated across the nation and his newsletter became hotly in demand. In short, B. J. was a success.

Then, to B. J.’s even greater astonishment, Joyce sold her book. B. J. had no idea of the book’s contents, but whatever they were, the publishing company was thrilled and promised big things for this new author, hereby known as Joyce Throughfro Maxwell. Throughfro was Joyce’s maiden name, which she now claimed she’d always regretted forsaking at marriage because it sounded so literary, so her. (B. J. wondered if his mind was tricking him--he remembered how she’d leaped at the chance to dump it.)

But then, B. J.’s mind was becoming busier and busier these days:

... The problem was, Your Honor...

B. J. began having frequent mental conversations with the judge who would preside over his arraignment, presenting excuses that would be so persuasive, so heartrending, that he’d be let off with a warning never to do it again, which B. J. fervently promised--every single time he ran through the imaginary legal proceedings in his head. At least three times a day.

Guilt. Now that things had gotten better, incredibly better, B. J.’s conscience had returned and kicked into high gear. He arrived at the horrible determination that somehow, by selling the painting, he’d made an implicit deal with the Devil that material prosperity was worth more to him than anything. More than his integrity. His honesty. His self-respect. His...soul.

B. J. began to cut bloody notches into his jaw in the mornings from being unable to look at himself in the mirror while he shaved.

Joyce thought all this integrity stuff hilarious. She chuckled as she informed him that his mental struggles were going to work extremely well in her next book--which was, she added smugly, a comedy.

It didn’t help that she often mused that they owed all their good fortune to that painting...grinding the memory into B. J.’s aching head how Mrs. Bachrach had told him, and Brian had repeated, that B. J. had been her dearest, best friend. A man among cats...and thieves. So what if she’d left all her money to her cats, inadvertently enriching the rotten Dr. Sams? She’d done exactly what she wanted, and what she wanted was to leave everything to that cat hospital. She’d had faith in B. J.’s honesty, and where was that honesty now? Gone. Eaten up by greed. He was as bad as Sams.

One evening, after Joyce had broiled B. J. a particularly tender swordfish steak, B. J. brought up the subject to Joyce about the painting. When she heard him out, she stated that he was insane. She called him a neurotic crack-pot and emphasized her belief by letting him spend a chilly night in bed that reminded him of the old days. The good old days when he never cut himself shaving.

A few more days passed, but B. J. found that now every time someone new subscribed to his newsletter, his stomach hurt. Since subscription requests were flowing in, antacids became a steady diet, spoiling his enjoyment of Joyce’s newfound cooking skills.

Time did nothing but reinforce his determination...he had to get the painting back. It wasn’t his to sell, or to profit from. Even if his current profit came from his own efforts, it was based on the security bought by that painting. And if he forfeited all his good luck because of this new action, so be it. At least he wouldn’t bleed to death someday from a cut throat.

But to find the painting, first he had to find Joe.

Since B. J.’s forte was research, he used logic. After some thought, he decided that a fellow like Joe, getting on in years, probably hadn’t strayed too far from his home area to conduct his break-ins. First he called the jail to check whether Joe had gained entrance there since last seen. No Joe.

Remembering Joe’s shrewd estimation of Joyce (and her coffee), B. J. next guessed that he probably had a strong affection for women--excluding wives. Bearing no resemblance to Brad Pitt as an aid to acquiring female companionship, and having made what B. J. considered somewhat relaxed lifestyle choices, Joe likely frequented night spots that featured female entertainment. The kind that didn’t cost much and involved no commitment. Places like that thrived a few miles down the highway, safely out of reach of village ordinances. B. J. decided to start his search there.

He picked the biggest place first, the one advertising the most exotic dancers. ‘FLO’S!’ exclaimed the flashing purple neon.

With his heart in his throat and wire-rimmed glasses safely tucked in a pocket (for a more macho appearance), B. J. stepped into a stripper bar for the first time in his life. The noise! The percussion pounded his chest, the bass hummed in his knees, and all of it deafened him. The energy level was as high as the noise level, and he had to take a seat suddenly to orient himself.

“Hey, cutie! What can I get you to drink?” asked a girl so young he couldn’t believe she should be allowed to work. But he asked for beer, and when she whirled to take his order to the bar, he stared dazedly at the shortest shorts he’d ever seen inadequately covering the roundest, cutest behind he’d ever seen.

A beer or so later, B. J. caught his head bobbing in time to the music. He discovered himself feeling more relaxed than he had in years. He was even smiling!

He was sternly reminding himself that his mission didn’t include having a good time, when the music came to an abrupt halt--interrupted by crashing cymbals.

An electric guitar let out a sinus-shattering riff. Then whining, grinding, rock music with a slow throbbing beat filled the room and a line of girls began snaking out from behind a curtain onto a stage. They wore high heels, a few sparkles, and little else. One after another, they came out, and kept coming.

B. J.’s eyes snapped wide open and without conscious decision, he picked up his beer and drifted, mesmerized, toward the last remaining seat at the bar. The bar stretched from one end of the stage like a long wide ribbon, making the shape of an exaggerated horseshoe in the vast room before rejoining the stage again on its opposite end. In minutes, the first girl would pass right in front of B. J.’s beer.

And then they were here. Satin high heels in neon colors shifting and stepping, swiveling and tapping in front of B. J.’s tightly clutched beer mug--a slow march of female feet, slim ankles, and knotty muscled calves... B. J.’s gaze was just daring to lift itself higher when a gnarled hand clamped onto his shoulder. B. J. nearly snapped his backbone, jumping from guilt.

“Man, I knew when I first laid eyes on you that you were a man I could get along with.” The hot breath of Joe Alvione’s hoarse chuckle tickled B. J.’s ear. He wrenched his gaze from the swiveling, dipping knees to face Joe.

With his arm looped over B. J.’s shoulder, Joe wedged his thick body between B. J. and his neighbor, nearly shoving both from their stools. B. J. glared, but Joe exclaimed, “Don’t waste those eyeballs on me, lookie there!” He pointed up and B. J. followed his instructions.

Time lost all meaning for B. J. as the heavenly line backed and twisted, kicked and squatted, dipping perilously close to his glasses (which he’d replaced for clearer vision), pirouetting, then dipping again. The music screamed and whined, and blended with B. J.’s heartbeat somehow. His mouth became dry, and he realized it was hanging open. He gulped down some beer and understood suddenly what "wetting your whistle" was all about.

When the last girl disappeared behind the curtain again, B. J. shrugged his aching neck and, remembering his image, removed his glasses again. “How do they expect you to stare straight up all that time?”

“You managed all right,” Joe said dryly. “You get it, dontcha? Flo? Flo Zeigfield? The guy that used to make all the beautiful girls dance in lines?”

B. J. stared at Joe blankly, until his brain cells cooled down and he could think. “You mean, Zeigfeld’s Follies?”

“Yeah! Great, ain’t it?”

B. J. gulped. “They’re lucky he’s dead, or he’d sue.”

Joe howled with laughter.

Then B. J. explained what he wanted, and Joe didn’t feel like laughing anymore.

“You lost your marbles, kid.” He shook his head in grave concern. “You need to talk to somebody. Get counseling.” He patted B. J. on the arm.

B. J. jerked his arm away. “You’re going to help me out, or you’re going to the police with me now, either dragged or walking, I don’t care.” He panted furiously through his nose.

Joe began patting B. J.’s chest. B. J. pushed his hands away. “What’re you--”

“Oh, calm down.” He found B. J.’s glasses and put them back on B. J.’s nose. “Now you look more like yourself. You shouldn’t worry about impressing these guys. They don’t care if you got eyes on your elbows.” He took B. J.’s arm and continued making soothing conversation, and they left the place without B. J. immediately registering the fact.

Suddenly B. J. realized he was sitting in the passenger seat of a pickup truck. “I’m being kidnapped! You’re kidnapping me!”

“B. J., if I wanted to kidnap you, wouldn’t I ‘of knocked you out first or something? You’re screaming like a woman, for God’s sake. Just shut up.”

B. J. shut up.

“That’s better. I’m takin’ you to an expert.”

“Your expert art fence?”

“Naw, an expert fixer. Relax. She’ll get the bugs outta your brain for you. The price is right, too. She works for free.”

“Free?”

“Yeah. By the by, how many beers you had tonight?”

“Uh--I don’t remember.”

“Cripes. Then just shut up.”

B. J. shut up.

“Sit there, B. J., and don’t say nothing until she asks.” Joe pointed to a soft chair by the fireplace. When he was obeyed, he turned to Mrs. Risk.

“He’s a nice enough fella, or I wouldn’ta brought ‘im. Sorry about his beered-up condition, but it’s kinda urgent. Do you want me to go or to wait?”

Mrs. Risk eyed him narrowly. “If you leave, how will Mr. Maxwell get home?”

“Oh, right. ‘Course, his house ain’t an awful long walk from here. He lives in those apartments this side o’ Wyndham, by the school. The walk’d sober him some, too, before he gets home to that dragon of his.”

Mrs. Risk considered the by now extremely alarmed B. J. “He looks sober enough, Joe. Wait in the kitchen. Rachel left some butterscotch cookies on the counter.”

Joe brightened. He bent toward B. J., said confidingly, “Rachel, that’s a friend o’ Mrs. Risk’s, now there’s a gorgeous female! Puts them at Flo’s to shame!” He disappeared around the corner.

She poured B. J. some tea from a pot that’d been steeping on the hearth. As he inhaled the slightly tart fragrance, he suddenly felt himself relax. Then, mysteriously, the urge to talk overwhelmed him. He told her everything.

Afterward, he heaved a great sigh.

“Feel better?” asked Mrs. Risk.

“No,” B. J. said passionately. “I realize more than ever that I’ve done a really bad thing.”

“Yes, you have.”

Joe wandered into the room, brushing crumbs from his broad front. B. J.’s eyes narrowed. “He steals for a living, yet he’s a friend of yours? Who are you, anyway?”

Joe said, “Fine time to ask, after you spill your guts to the lady.”

B. J. reddened. “I don’t know what came over me.”

Joe roared with laughter. “You won’t be the last guy to say that where the Witch o’ Wyndham-by-the-Sea’s concerned!”

B. J. pursed his lips. “That’s you?”

Mrs. Risk nodded.

“Well, I’ve heard of you, of course. But I don’t see...well, how can you help me?”

Joe grinned. “She’s done some things you’d have a hard time believing. Helped me, once‘r twice. No shame in it.”

B. J. squirmed. “I wasn’t feeling shame, I--uh...”

Mrs. Risk raised her eyebrows. “Perhaps you’d already decided on a course of action?”

“Well.” He sat up straighter. “I thought Joe could tell me the name of his fence, and then I intended to ask the fence who his customer was...”

Joe’s eyes popped wide. “And you thought that a big-time art fence would just...tell you? Not if you was James Bond, with the Marine Corps to back you up.” He wheezed in dismay. “Never mind the fact that if anybody revealed any info, me’n the fence both’d be out o’ business. The real problem is, this particular fence, see, ain’t a regular guy like you and me and Mrs. Risk, here.”

B. J. eyed Joe and Mrs. Risk, startled at the idea of considering either of them "regular." “Yes, well--”

Joe shuddered. “Nooooo, B. J. He’d skin your privates just for findin’ 'im, let alone talkin’ to 'im. Mine’r crawlin’ up inside my guts right now at just the thought of it. He ain’t nobody to bother. That’s why we need Mrs. Risk, you moron!”

“I can do this myself, you moron!” B. J. leaped to his feet, but then swayed lightheadedly. Joe grabbed his arm to steady him.

“Just let the lady talk, okay? Sorry I called you a moron. You don’t know no better, I realize that. Really. I’m sorry. Go on, Mrs. Risk. He’s ready to listen.”

Mrs. Risk considered B. J. carefully. “I don’t think you’re correct, Joe.”

She began to stride slowly back and forth in front of the two men. B. J. started to speak, only to be shaken roughly into silence by a stern Joe.

Finally, Mrs. Risk looked up. “Well, first, let’s discover who purchased your painting. There may be nothing I can do after all.”

She picked up a phone, and turning her back to the men, murmured during her call in a voice too low for them to make out the words.

Once again B. J. tried to speak.

“Shut up, will you?” snapped Joe.

B. J. snapped back, “You know, I’m getting sick and tired of being told to shut up!”

Joe nodded sympathetically. “I don’t blame you. Shut up anyway, just this one last time. Honest, you’ll be glad you did.”

Fuming, B. J. shut up.

Mrs. Risk turned around. She wrote an address on a piece of paper and handed it to B. J. “Here’s where your painting is hanging now.”

B. J.’s mouth dropped open. “Wha--? How--?”

She smiled gently. “I deduced who the fence must be by Joe’s fright, and from your description of the painting. Art fences specialize.”

“And you got him to tell you--after what Joe said he was like?”

She nodded. “Now, if you’d like to listen--”

B. J. jumped up. “Hey, thanks. Joe’s right. You’ve been a great help, but this’s all I need. I can handle things from here, myself...” Still muttering excitedly, he ran out the door.

As the door slammed behind him, Mrs. Risk looked at Joe. He shook his head. “I’m sorry. Thought he had more sense, but the poor guy--he lives with such stress.” He shrugged. “You’re a sport, an’ I owe ya one. Hey, tell Rachel her cookies were outrageous, will ya?”

She nodded and showed Joe out.

Later that night, freshly showered and sober, B. J. told the taxi to let him out a half block away from his destination, which turned out to be as close as the cab could get, anyway. The neighborhood was choked with parked cars, mostly of the luxury class.

As he approached the mansion on foot, he saw that a party was under way. At this late hour, most of the partygoers were already inside, and having a terrific evening, judging by the music and laughter.

B. J. paused next to a dark blue Rolls. He worried how rich and/or powerful the man might be who owned a house like this, but concluded finally that it didn’t matter. Whoever it was had bought stolen property, and was undoubtedly a crook--B. J. flushed in the darkness. At least as big a crook as he himself was for selling it.

He shivered nervously and almost turned and ran. But instead, somehow he forced himself to slip through the nearest side door.

Inside, no one even glanced at him. He went upstairs, deciding to begin his search in the bedrooms. That’s where he expected to find the fewest people, and his courage needed a rest.

When he first spotted the painting, he thought he was hallucinating--after all, he’d been obsessed for weeks with his need to find it. He’d taken a moment to use the master bedroom facilities and while zipping himself afterward, he spotted it in the bathroom mirror on the wall in front of him. He whipped around with a gasp.

Then he gasped a second time. The steam from the shower, and from the bathtub--was this the way to treat a rare art treasure?! He had to get it out of here, no matter what else happened.

With indignation, he reached up and with both hands tried to lift the heavy painting away from the wall...and tugged in vain.

He frowned. Someone must’ve used bolts to attach it to the wall...then dimly he registered the thudding of running footsteps. It must’ve been wired it to a well-monitored alarm system, he realized with resignation. Within seconds, his arms were pinned tight by the grip of uniformed guards. Curious party guests had followed and were peering into the bathroom.

To B. J.’s surprise, he noticed the badges pinned to his guards’ chests were from the genuine police, not a hired security service. He gave the crowd of well-dressed witnesses a speculative glance and decided the time had arrived to confess. The thief couldn’t deny evidence screwed tight into the wall of his own private bathroom!

Just as he reached the part about Joe Alvione fencing the painting, an older gentleman thrust his way to the front of the spectators. To B. J.’s stupefaction, it was State Appellate Court Judge Arthur Parmdell...fuming as if he owned the place.

At first B. J. thought to ask for the judge’s help in apprehending this high-society criminal. But then the peculiarity of the expression on Parmdell’s face began to filter through B. J.’s confusion. “This is your house!” he gasped. “You bought this painting!”

Judge Parmdell’s eyes popped open wide--much the same way B. J.’s had.

Then B. J. got mad. He started yelling about "integrity of public office," and "receiving stolen goods," and how he’d come to retrieve the painting--

The guards began howling at B. J. to shut up, shut up, but B. J. decided he wasn’t going to shut up any more for anyone and began yelling even louder...

The third time B. J. pronounced the words "stolen Old Master," the judge clutched his chest, croaked, "My Senate campaign!" and fell into a heap on the cold tile floor.

One of the guards bent down, touched the judge’s chest, then stood up hastily, saying in a hushed tone, “He’s dead!”

The other guard gripped B. J.’s arm so tight that B. J. squeaked. To his horror, the first guard turned to him and growled into his face, “You killed the judge, you summbitch! You’re gonna fry!” B. J. fainted.

Later, B. J. emerged from unconsciousness to realize that he was was sprawled--beltless, watch-and-wedding-ringless, shoe lace-less, and with empty pockets--on a bare mattress thrown onto a steel shelf in the Wyndham lockup. He pressed his forehead against the artfully etched cement block wall and moaned, “Oh, Joyce, what will happen to me now?”

“Maxwell, you awake? Visitor,” said the guard outside the barred door. B. J. looked up.

To his astonishment, it was Mrs. Risk.

“I’m waiting here to be charged for murder, aren’t I?” he muttered after a pause.

“It’s called ‘arraignment.’”

“I--I’m sorry about the judge...”

“Glad to hear it, Mr. Maxwell. Here, I’ve brought someone to see you.”

“Another visitor?” He turned lifeless eyes to the wall, uninterested.

She turned aside and up stepped Brian McKee, Mrs. Bachrach’s lawyer.

B. J. heard a nervous throat clearing and looked around. “Brian? I--I hadn’t thought about hiring a lawyer, but I guess I ought--”

“Oh, I don’t do criminal cases, but uh--” Mrs. Risk prodded him with a sharp elbow. “I came to tell you--” he took a deep breath and flushed bright puce. B. J. didn’t notice, his interest having been drawn again to the wall.

“Mr. McKee has some information that you should hear, Mr. Maxwell,” put in Mrs. Risk crisply. “Please pay attention.”

Brian licked his lips. “I’m sorry you’re in here--killing the judge and--uh, yeah. Anyway--the painting. I didn’t tell you because--why get you all upset over something that couldn’t be changed? I thought she’d already sold it, but Mrs. Risk says she gave it to you before her cruise. It’s--well, B. J.,” he gulped, “she really liked you--I like you, too, I don’t care what you did--”

B. J. slowly rose from his bunk, eyes narrowing. “What are you trying to tell me?”

Brian backed away. “That, uh, you didn’t need to feel so guilty for selling that painting.”

Grasping the bars, B. J. mashed his face as far through them as he could. “What? Why not?”

“Because, uh, she left it--to you.”

“In her will?”

“Uh-huh.”

“But you didn't--”

“I know.” Brian looked like he might throw up any second.

“Why didn't you tell me??”

“Yeeeess. And then there’s the question of why you didn’t inform Mr. McKee that you had the painting in your possession, isn’t there, Mr. Maxwell...?”

B. J. gazed at Mrs. Risk as if just realizing at that moment that she was there. He wilted. “I-- because I--”

“You were such a nice guy!” exclaimed Brian. “I couldn’t stand the thought of seeing the disappointment on your face when I told you of the million or so you could have had if she hadn’t sold it for that mangy hospital. You understand, don’t you? Listen, my law firm is awfully upset with me, but I told them what a great guy you are and how you’d...”

“I’m not a great guy,” interrupted B. J. “I guess even then I wanted to steal the painting. If I’d been really honest, I would’ve told you about it right away.” He dropped his grip on the bars and shuffled back to the bunk. “I deserve to be here.”

“B. J.?” a soft, feminine voice said.

B. J. looked up. Joyce was leaning against the bars, looking at him with uncharacteristic tears in her eyes.

“Joyce? I thought you’d have left me by now. Guess you’ve been right all along, I am a stupid jerk.”

“No. You’re a kind, wonderful, upright and honest man, who I didn’t appreciate. I was the jerk. Listen, B. J., listen... I was so full of guilt over not helping out with our finances that I couldn’t live with myself. It ate me up inside, thinking how you were making all kinds of sacrifices for my career that hadn’t even happened yet. Might not ever happen.

“When you write a book, who knows whether it’s going to sell or not. For all I knew, I was going to be taking advantage of your kind nature for years without any end in sight!”

She glanced tearfully at the witch. “I talked it all over with Mrs. Risk, and she made me realize that it was my insecurities that made me so mean, so greedy. I resented that you weren’t doing better financially because I hated feeling so damned guilty!

“It’s all twisted, I know. You probably can’t understand. I don’t blame you...”

B. J. stood and hugged her through the bars. “Oh, but I do!”

She sobbed. “You-- you do?"

“You bet I do. I’ve learned a lot about guilt these last few weeks...and minutes.”

“But, B. J., you shouldn’t feel guilty at all! I goaded you into this mess. You only wanted to do the right thing all along. We could’ve made it without the money from the painting, one way or another. We would’ve thought of something.

“Listen, Joyce, I’d already--”

Mrs. Risk stepped forward. “As fascinating as all this is, you can sort out your joint guilt at another time. For now, let’s get Mr. Maxwell out of here. Arthur?”

Judge Parmdell came from around the corner, and instructed the attendant to unlock B. J.’s cell.

B. J. staggered back, shocked at the resurrection. “You-- you’re dead!”

“Oh, I have a few years left.” Judge Parmdell smiled sheepishly. “I was always good on stage. Helps you in the courtroom to be able to act, you know. You’ll find your painting on the desk outside, with your belt and the rest of your things.”

“How--?”

“How did Mrs. Risk manage this?” asked Judge Parmdell. “She’s done more for the people in Wyndham, and beyond, than we could ever repay, Maxwell. I’m afraid I’m obliged to do anything she asks me to do.”

Mrs. Risk gazed at him with a deceptively sweet smile. She added, “Especially since a bathroom was an awfully peculiar place to hang a Da Vinci, wasn’t it, Arthur?”

Arthur reddened, but gamely returned her smile.

B. J. turned humbly to Mrs. Risk. “I should’ve listened to you, like Joe advised.”

Mrs. Risk eyed a flushing Joyce. “Yes, well, I can understand your lack of faith in female acumen. However, I hope you’ll both take a new attitude toward each other in the future.”

B. J., quivering in gratitude, turned to the judge. “Sir, the painting’s yours, you paid for it. Please keep it.”

“Ah, no. Thank you anyway, son. It was stolen property when I bought it...although I didn’t know that at the time!” he added quickly. “I really can’t keep it.”

“Then I’ll pay you back.”

Mrs. Risk smiled grimly. “That’s very sweet, Mr. Maxwell, but Arthur will do nicely without a refund. I hope you now realize that money isn’t the most important aspect of what something costs.”

Judge Parmdell grinned at B. J. and shook his hand. “I hope you’ll reward my assistance in this matter with your generous support in my bid for the Senate?”

“Ttcha!” Mrs. Risk rolled her eyes.