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“I have one. Thank you just the same.”

“Have a nice night, Susan.”

“You, too,” Susan Reynolds said.

Although she had hoped to be able to get away from the party without being seen, Susan Reynolds ran into her hostess as she was going down the stairway to the first floor.

“You’re not leaving so soon?” Daffy asked, pro forma.

“Thank you for having me, Daffy,” Susan said. “I had a lovely time.”

“Even if you’re leaving alone?” Daffy challenged. “You didn’t find anyone interesting?”

“I don’t recall saying I didn’t find anybody interesting,” Susan said, “just that I was leaving here alone. A policeman offered to take me someplace where the jazz is supposed to be good.”

She winked at Daffy, who smiled with pleasure.

“Have a good time,” Daffy said.

“I will try,” Susan said, and kissed Daffy on the cheek.

“He’s really not as bad as I said,” Daffy said.

“Now you tell me?” Susan said. “After I get my hopes up?”

Daffy laughed appreciatively.

Susan walked to the end of Stockton Place and handed the claim check to her car to the man in charge of the v

alet parking. It was delivered much sooner than she expected, but with what she had come to regard as the ritual expression of admiration.

“Nice wheels,” the valet parking driver said.

Susan had come into a trust fund established for her by her paternal grandfather when she had turned twenty-five. The Porsche 911 had been her present to herself on that occasion.

“Nice engine, too,” Susan said, and slipped him two dollar bills.

He looked like a nice kid, and he smiled warmly at her.

“Thanks a lot,” he said.

Susan got behind the wheel, smiled up at the kid, and drove away.

She drove to City Hall, then turned left onto North Broad Street. There was probably a better way to get out of town—there was a superhighway close to the Delaware River—but she was reluctant to try something new, and wind up in New Jersey.

Near Temple University, she spotted the first sign identifying the road as Pennsylvania Route 611, and that made her feel more comfortable. Now she was sure she knew where she was.

She thought of the cop.

The truth of the matter is, I really would rather be sitting in some smoke-filled dive listening to Dixieland with him than coming up here.

As a matter of fact, there are probably two hundred things I would rather be doing than coming up here.

But at least I will get to see Jennifer and the baby.

Not, of course, the father of the baby. If I never saw that son of a bitch again, it would be too soon.

The Chinese had it wrong. Boy babies should be drowned at birth, not girl babies. Just keep enough of them for purposes of impregnation, and get rid of the surplus before they grow up and start doing terrible things.