Except that… it doesn’t look like the Abba I know. It’s him, but without a beard. And without a yarmulke

“Yair? Yair, wait!”

The voice is familiar.

I spin round.

Shimmy Gruber skids to a halt, right by the front door. I’m tempted to slam it in his face, but now that he basically shouted my name to the entire street….

My hands clench. What did he do that for? Why is he even here?

“What are you doing here?” I blurt out. This is crazy, this is insane, I’m finally inside this house, and a stupid kid who can’t keep his nose out of my business has to ruin everything.

He blinks at me. “Well, you’re here,” he says.

Gee, how smart.

“I—I,” I splutter. “I’m here for a reason! I’m looking for something! But this isn’t our house and you’d better get out of here, out of this neighborhood, before you land us both in major trouble!”

He isn’t deterred. “I’m here for a reason, too,” he says, solidly and infuriatingly, still standing right there in plain view in front of the door. “I was behind you when you were riding.  And I think you should know that down the block there’s a guy sitting outside on a deckchair, and as soon as you passed, he put down the newspaper he was reading and made a call. And I heard him saying, ‘The boy came back, he’s going to the house.’ ”

I’m such an idiot.

Of course these men have people watching the house.