Of course the door to the apartment is locked, too. Some years ago Arany finished a special course on the techniques used by burglars. He even knows what tools to bring. But he wouldn't make a very good burglar. Picking the lock takes longer than he had hoped, especially because he feels uncomfortable standing in the hallway. His hands shake, his eyes blur. But after about three minutes, he has the lock picked and the door open. Arany slowly enters and shuts the door behind him. He walks in with his "disposable" gun in his hand. But no one is there, only disorder and dirt. He doesn't spend much time thinking about where to put the bugs. One goes on the bottom of a cup that she won twelve years ago at an amateur dance competition. Another under the bed, one on the phone and one inside the TV remote control. He figures most people like to have it nearby. One goes on the door, to show if someone enters. Arany slips out and locks the door. It's all gone smoothly.
     In thirty minutes he has rented a room from the woman with the old-fashioned hair cut. And from that time on he's been resting here. Baseball is sometimes replaced by boxing, and Arany tries to picture the fight based on what the announcer is saying.
     From time to time the phone rings in the apartment across the way. People call the pimp with more malice than pity in their voice. There are threats: I'll catch that sonofabitch. And advice: Let somebody else to do it. Arany sighs. He thinks of the car that he saw speeding away from his house. Had he seen correctly? Or was it a mistake?
     The door opens sometimes, and Arany turns on the other little devices, too. A young girl's voice. She brought some money, the pimp counts it peevishly. He says it's not enough.
     "Does it hurt?" the girl asks. She's the first, with some compassion in her voice. A nasal, masculine voice comes to the door. Beidecker kicks the girl out of the room. They drink, Arany in the house opposite hears the clink of ice cubes. They talk about a job. It would be big money but Beidecker is out of business right now. He curses the cop who broke his knee and threatens him in absentia. Arany begins to get bored with the threats. When he hears for the thirtieth time how Beidecker will kill him, he's almost tempted to go over there and face the pimp. A battle of the invalids!
     Arany doesn't learn what the big job would be. The nasal voice leaves, and after a few minutes Arany turns off the listening device. He doesn't want the miniature batteries to run out, but his also fed up with the pimp's voice.
     At noon he orders pizza and soda. He eats it sitting by the window looking bored at the sunshine outside. Though he has a telescope, he can't see pimp's window, because his room is on the fifth floor. Time passes slowly. He lies, almost unmoving, except when he changes the ice bags on his eye. He listens to the inane conversations. And every five minutes or so he glances at his watch, waiting for 3 p.m. That's the best time to call Celia, before she leaves her office to go home or the institute. The time when her last patient has left and she gives herself five minutes of rest, kicking off her shoes, swinging her slim legs up on to the table, bending her head back on to the armchair's headrest.
     But he can't stand waiting any more. Before half past two he grabs the phone and begins pushing the buttons with shaking fingers. It's an old, cheap hand-held phone, the kind that was fashionable in the eighties. People installed them in every room, including the toilet. The buttons are too small. He dials wrong several times and has to start again. He can't decide if his landlady is eavesdropping or not, but his bet is that she is. That's nice, listening to the listener. He doesn't smile, but hears the phone ringing unanswered in Celia's office.
     He waits a few minutes and tries again. The same result and this time he can't fool himself with the weak explanation that he accidentally dialed a wrong number. No mistake. He looks at the watch with his good eye, following the second hand running.
     The phone rings up at Steven Beidecker's. Arany's muscles tighten involuntary, his glance jumps from the watch to the recorder. He can't see the tape running, but the little red light is on.
     "What's up brother, you got jammed this time, huh?"
     The voice sounds familiar. There is a tremor in Arany's stomach. He doesn't move, just listens in an eager attention.
     "Yeah." A short, gruff answer without the usual bragging about how he had decorated the bloody cop's face and without the threats of what he'll do when he catches Arany.
     A short, throaty laugh.
     "You're getting old, my friend. Not like you used to be"
     Arany is almost sure it's him. An entire stadium full of people began to shout in the next room. Arany sits up, cursing, and puts in the earpiece. He leans forward as he listens, looking at the blank windows of the house opposite.
     "I'll get him."
     But he says this without conviction. Arany senses that other things are on the pimp's mind.
     "When will that be, man? When you're healed? How long you have the cast for, anyway?"
     "I don't know. Maybe a weekâ¦"
     "Maybe six months, man. Don't think I am crazy. By then the bitch is gonna disappear and we'll never find herânot in this life."
     "Hey, Frost, listen to me, Iâ¦"
     The wire of his earpiece tightens as Arany jumps up, he almost pulls it out of the recorder. He clenches his fists. Where are you, you sonofabitch? Just tell me!
     "You listen to me, friend. The bitch is out there somewhere with fifty million. Maybe she doesn't even know that Vic bought it. She's faithfully waiting for him with her little suitcase, packed with a goddamn fortune. How long do you think it'll be before she gets nervous? She might think Vic made a fool of her. She could make some calls and find out what happened. If she wants to, she could rat us out and go live like a queen with that money somewhere. I know she's not too bright, but she can't be that stupid. Or maybe she'll do something really stupid, and the cops will come pick her up. How would you like that?"
     Beidecker doesn't answer. Arany bites his lip as he stands by the window with the earpiece on his head. The recorder's little red light sparkles palely behind him.
     "Where is the bitch?"
     "Ask me another. She could be anywhereâ¦"
     "You expect me to buy that Steve? Don't try to make a fool out of me, because I'll fool with you. You know where that bitch is, just the same as I know where you are."
     The voice is full of danger. Arany pictures the pimp like he was yesterday, when they were fighting. He sees again his hard, roughly cut face, his fast, exact punches. He's not one to wet his pants, even with his knee broken.
     "Don't you try to make a fool out of me, Frost! You think I can trust you out of my sight for a second? You think I expect you to take care of me? Am I supposed to believe that my good friend Frost will take care of me?"
     "Look, if I got to go after the bitch, you don't get half, but I can give you ten million."
     "Get lost!"
     "What the hell do you want, man? You're going to go after the bitch with that big cast on? That'll look pretty funny at the airport. Or, I mean bus station, you kept her close by, right?"
     The pimp laughs. Arany shakes his head.
     "You're a funny guy, Frost."
     "All right, all right. But you can't go after her. You're going to have to trust me some way. You need my help. Look, I ain't gonna screw you over."
     "No, you aren't, Frost, I'm sure of that."
     There is a click as the pimp hangs up across the street, but Arany still stands there, stunned. He's coming over here, Arany thinks. He has to come here! He took the headphones off, nervously. Soon, you'll get what you want. You can look into his eyes. He'll stand there, with his muscles and scars and his merciless eyes. Will you be paralyzed by him again? Or will you be stronger this time? Is Celia's serum, or your simmering hatred for the man, going to help? Since that night, it seems you haven't done anything but fight and kill. You'll be like him: A wild beast.
     He looks out of the window. He can't open it, but he can still see the door of the building across the street. Two kids are standing there. One of them is spitting at regular intervals. Arany withdraws into the room.
     He has to come here! For fifty million dollars he'd kill his own mother. He's going to come here soon, maybe in a matter of hours.
     The phone starts ringing. This time it isn't ringing at Beidecker's, but in the room next door. Shuffling steps approach, an open palm bangs on his door.
     Arany quickly puts on his shirt, but doesn't tuck it in, he puts the pistol in his waistband underneath. He opens the door a crack.
     The landlady blinks at him through the slit.
     "It's for you."
     It's Celia. Arany is shocked at her voice. A soft, painful, sad voice. "What happened to you?"
     He presses the receiver to his ear, and covers his other ear with his palm. The old man stares at the television with his mouth half-opened. The woman disappears towards the kitchen. Something is sizzling loudly in the frying pan, dishes are rattling.
     "My apartment was set on fire, so I rented a room." He glances towards the door behind which the borrowed equipment is waiting for him. Why doesn't he tell her what made him move exactly here and what he's doing? He can't make himself say it.
     "I called you at your office," he says with an accusing tone.
     "I had to leave the office," she says, hesitating, as if she wants to add something. "Martin isn't wellâ¦"
     "How did you find my number?"
     "Ericsson gave it to me. Are you angry with me?"
     Arany doesn't say anything. He stares at the old man with an empty expression. The wallpaper is the same as in his room, vases and some books on the shelves around the TV set, next to them another landscape like the one in his room.
     "Do you want me to come over there? Perhaps I can get away a little laterâ¦"
     Arany becomes furious. He bangs his fist against the wall. It's a loud slam that rattles the thin wall. The old man doesn't look back, and the cooking sounds continue in the kitchen. Only his hand hurts. Yes, come over, I want to see you, embrace you, feel you and not let you go! I want you to be beside me at night, to comfort me, to give me strength. He doesn't say this, he just looks at his reddening fist.
     "Shall I go?"
     "Perhaps later," Arany sighs, "last night did you go straight home from my place?"
     "Yes. Of course."
     He can see Celia as clearly as if she was standing next to him. He can see her eyelashes shudder, and the way she runs her fine fingers through her hair. Oh God, how much he loves her! How can he suspect her of anything?
     "And your husband?"
     "What about him?"
     "He didn't go anywhere? Did he spend the night at home?"
     A long silent break. Before the woman can say anything, Arany knows the answer. He hesitates, wondering what, and how much, to tell her. Celia knows that he's jealous anyway. It's obvious the way she doesn't let him say a bad word about her husband.
     "I swear I saw your car from my window last night," he says finally. "I know you won't believe this. OK, perhaps I was wrong. I might have been mistaken. It was only a second, I could hardly open one of my eyes there was so much smoke, and I was panicking. I might have hallucinated. Your husband wouldn't do anything like this. He's not that kind of person. Maybe he's suffering inside because you've been cheating on him. He smiles, he shakes hands with me. I'm probably just imagining all this. But I could swear it was your car that I saw."
     He can't avoid a mildly sarcastic tone. It's the worst thing to doâhe'll just make her unnecessarily angry. But he can't help himself.
     Her answer is soft, uncertain, nothing like the scolding he'd expected.
     "I have to talk to you! I'm coming."
     "Don't!" Arany yells, but Celia has hung up, and he is holding the trashy little wall-telephone tightly, feeling helpless rage inside. Stupid woman, how can she do this? Doesn't she see that she'll be in the way?"
     He runs back into his room. He looks at the indicator lights, none of them are on. No one has called the pimp then, and he hasn't made any calls either. Arany puffs his cheeks, nervously blows air out of his mouth, and turns the hidden bugs on. Silence, only some crackling and clattering. Beidecker is alone and he doesn't seem to be the type to talk to himself.
     Calm down! You have to relax! Plenty of bed rest. Move as little as possible, don't get nervous.
     He drops onto the bed. Just in time. His energy leaves him as fast as it came. He lies there, dazed. It feels like a red-hot vise is squeezing his head. The room spins. His body is pressed into bed by tons of weights. Two cripples are waiting for Frost. One with a broken knee, and another one beaten to near death. He'll have it easy.
     The display light turns on. He doesn't have to press the button, it starts recording automatically. He is in bed, he doesn't move. A female voice. The voice of a worried young woman.
     "Steve, is that you?"
     "Where the hell are you?" he growls furiously.
     "At the airport."
     "Are you nuts?"
     It can't be, Arany thinks. I can't be this lucky. But he knows he is, and he's filled with malicious joy. Everything will be fine, it just depends on where you step, how you move. Like in chess. You have to be in control of the board. And he will. He only has to wait and not spoil the last step. The one where nothing else counts but speed, strength, determination and luck.