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checking for the tail. He saw the arm of the brown jacket almost hidden behind a copy of the L.A. Herald-Examiner , then turned away and walked around until he found the Rent-a-Car booth, where he rented a Chevy Vega. He picked up a map of the city from the Rent-a-Car agency and followed it to the public library.
    The librarian was a pretty young woman in jeans who proved very helpful. She directed him to the microfilm viewer, where he ran through back issues of the Las Vegas Sun . He was looking for the by-line of a reporter: someone who knew everything going on in town, but who was discreet enough not to mention names. After about an hour he decided on a reporter named Cassidy. He went outside the library to a pay booth and called the newspaper, asking for the reporter.
    A twangy western voice answered and Caine suggested that they meet in Cleopatra’s Barge that evening about eight thirty. He promised Cassidy the inside story on a hell of a scoop. Cassidy guardedly accepted his invitation, the cynicism and doubt heavy in his voice.
    â€œHow will I find you?” he asked.
    â€œDon’t worry, I’ll find you,” Caine replied and abruptly hung up.
    Caine then bought hair color rinse and a large roll of plastic sheeting at a nearby supermarket. His next stop was the hardware store, where he picked up a hacksaw, a small vise, a trench shovel, flashlight, and a Smith & Wesson stainless steel folding knife. At the luggage shop he bought a large leather suitcase and a small vinyl airline-style shoulder bag. As he came out of the hardware store, he noted that the tail was in a gray Ford parked down the street. He placed the shovel and the plastic roll in the large suitcase and everything else into the airline bag. Then he drove downtown to the Greyhound bus station and put the large suitcase into a locker. Caine relaxed in the station for a few minutes till he made Brown Jacket again, then drove to the elaborate Boulevard Mall shopping center.
    A large sign spread across the Sears window proclaimed, “Joy to the world, on earth peace and goodwill to men,” and loudspeakers electronically carolled. For the first time, he was reminded that it was almost Christmas. The mall thronged with the bustle of holiday shoppers and he felt a sudden stab of loneliness. But wasn’t it that same Christ who had said, “Foxes have dens, and birds of the air their nests; but the Son of man hath not where to lay his head,” perhaps one of the loneliest sentences ever uttered? And Caine had no family or place to call his own, either. More than ever, he felt an alien in the crowd. He ambled along the bricked walk, peering at the shop windows stylishly dressed for Christmas and attractively enclosed with wrought-iron gates. After a while he went into the Broadway and purchased a pair of jeans and a cowboy shirt. Lastly, he stopped at a camera shop and purchased a Hasselblad, a cheap Polaroid camera, a Film Shield lead-coated pouch, and several rolls of film for both cameras. That was about all he could do with the tail on him, so he drove to the Desert Inn Country Club and played a challenging nine holes.
    He completely forgot about the tail and concentrated totally on the game. In fact it was Caine’s ability to dispassionately concentrate on something that made him so formidable. Just before making a chip shot on the seventh hole, he remembered that the psychologist at Langley had once asked him, “What is the most important thing in the world to you?”
    With some surprise he had replied, “Whatever I happen to be doing at the time.”
    By the time Caine got back to the hotel, showered, and changed into his three-piece suit, it was almost six o’clock.
    Caine began the evening with a steak dinner downstairs at the Bacchanale. While he was eating, Brown Jacket peered briefly into the restaurant. He was a burly man, about Caine’s size, with deep-set eyes and unruly dark hair. Jesus, Caine