"For your information," Sergeant Kleiber said, "Van Richie hasn't made a record in 26 years. 1936." "Fine. Great," Ferraro answered. Inwardly, he groaned. It was _weeks_ now. "And he sure ain't dead." "Okay, you looked it up and he's alive." Ferraro moved the car skillfully through the traffic. "Fine. I'm glad to hear it." "Looked it up nothing. He just opened in a show right here on 46th! That's him in person we been hearing. I told you. I know that voice." "Yeah, you told me." "Look, why don't you admit you were wrong for once?" "The hell do you mean? I heard the singing. I said that." "All you said was he was dead or it was a record or something." "All I said was I never heard him sing those songs. Where'd you get all this about he's in a show?" "Drive by! Turn in 46th! It's right on the sign! Turn in!" Oh, nuts, thought Ferraro, what do I care if the guy _is_ in a show? "There. See? Slow down." "I can see it." They moved on down the block, past the other theatres. Ferraro shrugged. "Okay, he's still around." "Sure is. And that's him we hear singing." "But at night. How can he be on the radio if he's in a show? They wouldn't be doing a broadcast from the stage every night." Typical, thought Kleiber. In the wrong, so now he attacks. He couldn't say I was wrong or you were right or sorry or anything. "Okay, he's still around." Big deal. And now boring in about the broadcasting. Well, the hell with him. They were getting too many of his kind from the Academy nowadays. The know-it-all, you-heard-it-here-first type. He was coming up for an advance in pay-grade on the first of the month. He had big plans to get married. Well, let him stay in the barrel a while longer. It wouldn't hurt him. Pat or Peg or whatever her name was could wait. He made a mental note to get Ferraro's fitness report form from the clerk when they got back to the precinct house. * * * * * "Can you turn that down a little?" The girl shrugged and turned the volume control on the tiny radio. A sudden blare of sound crashed and echoed in the quiet studio. "Sorry," she called, hastily twisting the knob the other way. "Damn it, Nell, you do that every time. You've had that thing a year now." "Every time! You always exaggerate when you're mad. The other one was just the opposite, is all." He didn't answer. He turned back to the canvas and worked silently for several minutes. It was not going well but he kept at it doggedly, frowning in concentration, his lower lip trapped between his teeth. Suddenly he whirled. "Nell, turn that thing down or get it out of here!" "It _is_ down! I can't get it any softer." "Then shut it off." "Why should I? I want to--" "I said shut it off!" "I want to hear if Van Richie comes on with the news again." "What kind of foolishness--?" "Ye Gods, can't a person even breathe around here any more? You're so mad about that lousy painting--" "Nell." His voice was taut but he didn't shout.