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A jetliner took Mr. Gordon to Las Vegas the same night. He felt very giddy traveling without luggage, without preparation. In Las Vegas he checked the rosters of the big hotels for Merz' name and couldn't find it. Then he went to the smaller hotels that weren't on The Strip and found a listing for a couple named Mercedes. Taking the stairs two at a time, he pounded on the door of the room until Merz opened it, wearing a pair of BVDs. He had grown a goatee in the beatnik style and his hair was unruly. The room was sultry and had no air-conditioning. Inside, Mr. Gordon could see his wife in a pair of panties he recognized and a monogrammed blouse.

"Look, Merz," said Mr. Gordon, "my foot is in your door. The whole thing's off. I have got to have her back. I don't care whether she wants to come or not. She'll get used to me again and forget you, even if it takes fifty-two years. But she's my wife and I've got to have her back and there's no power on earth that can stop me. I don't care who's behind this."

"I can't do it," said Merz.

"Why not," said Mr. Gordon with his fists clinched.

" Because I took asthma, a bleeding ulcer, and let a Long Island train wreck have six of my grandchildren for your wife, that's why. It was under a special incentive plan for us employees."

Mr. Gordon understood perfectly and went away.

-Bruce Jay Friedman from his story "A Foot in the Door," black humor at its finest, or what happens when you deal with the Devil