On Borrowed Time by David Rosenfelt Page B

lobby.”
    “Perfect,” she said.
    We didn’t focus too much on the man outside, and managed to have a pleasant dinner. But when we finished, he was still there, so I left alone. I grabbed a cab and went to the hotel.
    About fifteen minutes after I arrived, Allie showed up. The excitement on her face was evident. “He followed you. As soon as your cab left, he pulled the device back inside the car, and then pulled out after you.”
    “Is he outside now?”
    “I didn’t see him, but he certainly could be. Either way, he left because you did. It was obvious.”
    “Who the hell could that be, and why would he be following me?”
    She smiled. “We’re getting somewhere, Richard. I can feel it.”
    I let that be the final word, because I wanted to believe it. When I left, I walked twice around the block, looking for the man in the car and trying to figure out if anyone was following me.
    I didn’t see him or anyone suspicious, though picking out suspicious people was never really a talent I cultivated. I finally hailed a cab and went home.
    When I got into my apartment, the one that did not feel like Jen was ever there, I tried to focus on Allie’s proclamation that we were getting somewhere.
    Damned if I could see it.

 
    “They are aware that you are following them,” the Stone said.
    Juice was no amateur; there was no way they could have made him. “That’s not possible.”
    “This is not conjecture. I’ve just finished listening to their conversation at the restaurant last night.” He proceeded to recount it in some detail, ending with the fact that Kilmer left first to determine if he was being followed.
    Juice was annoyed with himself and embarrassed. He had underestimated Kilmer and gotten burned. That would be the last time it would happen.
    “He won’t see me again.”
    “You are losing control of the situation,” the Stone said.
    “No, I’m not. What else was on the tape?”
    “Tape?” the Stone asked, making no effort to conceal his amusement. “Welcome to the digital age.”
    “You know what I mean,” he said. The Stone had not been making a joke or poking fun. That wasn’t his style; Juice had come to realize the Stone made Osama bin Laden look like Don Rickles. Instead he was subtly asserting his superiority, and Juice knew it. “What else do I need to know about their conversation?”
    “A transcript is being sent to you electronically, as always. You’re going to be a busy man.”
    “What does that mean? I’m already a busy man.”
    “Read the transcript and you’ll understand. I shouldn’t have to remind you of this, but this is a tightly controlled experiment. Its value is entirely dependent on that.”
    “When are you going to make your deal?” Juice asked.
    “That doesn’t concern you. But let me put it this way: My end is going considerably better than yours.”
    An hour later Juice had read the transcripts of Kilmer’s conversation in the restaurant. He was angry, not at Kilmer, but at himself. To have been detected by an amateur like Kilmer was inexcusable. The Stone was right about that.
    The Stone was right about one other thing as well. Juice was going to be a busy man.

 
    Monticello, New York, is what passes in the Catskill Mountains as the big city. That hasn’t changed over the years, even though everything else about the Catskills has.
    The Catskills, back in the fifties and sixties, was where it was happening, at least if you lived in the New York metropolitan area. And if you were Jewish. And if you liked to eat a lot.
    It was home to literally hundreds of hotels, the most prominent being the Concord, Kutsher’s, and Grossinger’s, and far more bungalow colonies. Big-name entertainment—Alan King, Zero Mostel, Milton Berle, Buddy Hackett, Red Buttons—headlined in the showrooms. The facilities were remarkable: hotels featured indoor and outdoor pools, bowling alleys, ice-skating rinks, pro-style golf courses, and even skiing. The restaurants served