The idea came to him like a bolt of lightning, just like that, pow, out of the blue.

  He would telephone.

  He would go to a telephone booth, but wait, there were no separate listings for the precincts, how could he possibly…

  Parker, that was his name. The detective in the luncheonette. Parker, of the 87th Squad, and the globes across the street were each marked with an “87,” which meant this was Parker’s precinct. Okay, he would call police headquarters and say that he was supposed to call a detective named Parker of the 87th Squad, but he had lost the number Parker had given him, and would they please give him the number. Maybe they would connect him direct, maybe they had a big switchboard down there that connected to all the precincts in the city. Or maybe they would simply give him the number of the 87th Precinct and then he would call it himself and ask to talk to a detective—not Parker, absolutely not Parker— it would be as easy as that.

  Pleased, he got off the bench.

  He took a last look at the police station, smiled, and walked out of the park, looking for the drugstore he had been in earlier that morning.

  The sergeant who answered the phone at police headquarters listened patiently while Roger told his invented story about Detective Parker, and then said, “Hold on, please.” Roger waited. He assumed the sergeant was checking to see if there really was a Detective Parker in the 87th Squad. Or maybe the sergeant didn’t give a damn one way or the other. Maybe he received similar calls a hundred times, a thousand times each day. Maybe he’d been bored stiff listening to Roger’s story, and maybe he was bored stiff now as he looked up the number of the precinct.

  “Hello,” the sergeant said.

  “Yes?”

  “That number is Frederick 7-8024.”

  “Frederick 7-8024, thank you,” Roger said.

  “Welcome,” the sergeant answered, and hung up.

  Roger felt in his pocket for another dime, found one, put it in the slot, waited for a dial tone, and began dialing.

  FR 7…

  Quickly, he put the receiver back onto the hook.

  What would he say when they answered? Hell, my name is Roger Broome, I want to tell you about this girl Molly, you see we met in a bar and…

  What? they would say.

  Who? they would say.

  What the hell is this all about, mister?

  He sat motionless and silent for perhaps three minutes, staring at the face of the telephone. Then he felt in the return chute for his coin, leadenly lifted his hand, and deposited the dime once again. The dial tone erupted against his ear. Slowly, carefully, he began dialing.

  FR 7-8024.

  He waited. The phone was ringing on the other end. He listened to it ring. The rings sounded very far away instead of just a few blocks from where he was. He began counting the rings, they must have been having a busy time over at that station house, seven, eight, nine…

  “87th Precinct, Sergeant Murchison.”

  “Uh…is this the police?” he asked. “Yes, sir.”

  “I’d like to talk to a detective, please.”

  “What is this in reference to, sir?”

  “I’d…uh…like to report…uh…”

  “Are you reporting a crime, sir?”

  He hesitated a moment, and then pulled the receiver from his ear and looked at it as though trying to make a decision. He was replacing it on the hook just as the sergeant’s voice, sounding small and drowning in the black plastic, began saying again, “Are you reporting a—” Click, he hung up.

  No, he thought.

  I am not reporting anything.

  I am getting out of this city and away from all telephones because I don’t want to talk to the police. Now how about that? I do not wish to discuss this matter with anyone, least of all the police, so how about that? Damn right, he thought, and opened the door of the phone booth and walked out of the booth and across the length of the drugstore. The colored girl, Amelia, was still behind the cash register. She smiled at him as he approached.

  “You back again?” she asked. “I didn’t see you come in.”

  “Yep,” he said. “Bad penny.”

  “You mail your cards off?”

  “Yep.”

  “Did you find your friend at the police station?”

  “Nope.”

  “How come?”

  “I figured there couldn’t be no friends of mine at the police station.”

  “You can say that again,” Amelia said, and laughed.

  “What time do you quit?” he said.

  “What?”

  “I said what time do you quit?”

  “Why?”

  “I want to get out of the city.”

  “What do you mean, out of the city?”

  “Out. Away.”

  “Home, you mean?”

  “No, no. Not home. That’s the same thing, ain’t it? That’s the same old box. The city’s a great big box, and Carey’s a tiny small box, but they’re both the same thing, right?”

  Amelia smiled and looked at him curiously. “I don’t know,” she said.

  “Go take off your apron,” he said slowly, “and hang it on that hook right there, you see that hook?”

  “I see it.”

  “Hang it on that hook right there, and tell your boss you have an awful headache—”

  “I don’t have a headache—”

  “Yes, you do have a headache, and you can’t work any more today.”

  Amelia looked at him steadily. “Why?” she said.

  “We’re going to get out of the city.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “And when we get out?”

  “We’ll see then. The big thing now is to do what we have to do, right? And what we have to do is get away from this city real quick.”

  “Are the cops after you?” she asked suddenly.

  “No.” Roger grinned. “Cross my heart and hope to die, the cops are definitely not after me. Now how about that? Are you going to get that headache and hang up that apron and come with me?”

  Amelia shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “When will you know?”

  “The minute you tell me what you want from me.”

  “From you? Who wants anything from you?”

  “When you’re colored, everybody.”

  “Not me,” Roger said.

  “No, huh?”

  “No.”

  Amelia kept looking at him steadily. “I don’t know what to make of you,” she said.

  “The apron,” he whispered.

  “Mmm.”

  “The hook,” he said.

  “Mmm.”

  “Headache.”

  “Mmm.”

  “Can’t work.”

  “Mmm.”

  “I’ll meet you outside. Five minutes. On the corner.”

  “Why?” she said again.

  “We’re gonna have fun,” he said, and turned and walked away from the cash register.

  She didn’t come outside in five minutes, and she didn’t come outside in ten minutes, and by the end of fifteen minutes he realized she wasn’t going to come out at all. So he peeked over the stuff piled in the front window of the drugstore and saw Amelia at the cash register making no sign of taking off her apron or of telling the boss she had a headache, so that was that. He walked away from the drugstore, thinking it was a shame because she really was sort of pretty and also he’d never been out with a colored girl before and he thought it might be fun. Now that he had decided not to go to the police with his story, it never once entered his mind that he should go home to Carey. He had tried to explain to Amelia that Carey, and the city, and the police station sitting on the edge of the park were all one and the same thing, that it was just a matter of degree as to how you classed them one against the other. The police station was a small box, and Carey was a slightly larger box, and the city was the biggest box of all, but all of them were trying their hardest to keep a man all closed up, when all a man wanted to do every now and then was relax and enjoy himself. Which is what he thought he and Molly were going to talk about last night, when they were discussing loneliness and all. But then, of course, she had begun to talk about that man in Sacramento instead.

  He had never really had a pretty girl in his life, and Molly was plain as hell until about 2:00 in the morning, he supposed that was when it was, well, never mind that. This colored girl behind the counter was pretty to begin with, which was why she hadn’t come out to meet him, he could have told her beforehand she wouldn’t, none of the real pretty girls ever did. It was probably just as well. Anybody from back home spied him in the city with a colored girl on his arm, even though she was part Spanish, hell, he didn’t want his mother getting wind of nothing like that. Not that he cared much about what his mother thought. If he cared about that, he’d be running right back home to Carey instead of staying here and planning to have a little fun with his time.

  He wondered where he should go now that the colored girl had spoiled his plans. Actually, he hadn’t had any plans even when he was hoping she’d come out to meet him. But she’d have been somebody to laugh with and talk to and show off for, and, well, he’d have come up with something, he just knew he would have. Maybe he’d have taken her to a movie with a stage show, he’d been to one the last time he’d come to the city, it was pretty good.

  “Hey,” the voice behind him said, “wait up!”

  He recognized the voice with surprise and turned to see Amelia running to catch up with him. She was wearing a paleblue coat with the collar pulled up high against her chin, her head covered with a vibrant-blue kerchief. She came up to him panting, vapor pluming from her mouth. Catching her breath, she said, “You sure are a fast walker.”

  “I didn’t think you were coming.”

  “The boss had to arrange for relief. It took a few minutes.”

  “Well, I’m glad you’re here,” Roger said.

  “I’m not sure I am,” Amelia said, and laughed. Her complexion was smooth and unmarked, her color a warm brown, her eyes a shade darker, her hair beneath the electric-blue kerchief a black as deep as night. When she laughed, a crooked tooth showed in the front of her mouth, and sometimes she lifted her hand self-consciously to cover the tooth, but only when she remembered. She had good legs, and she was wearing dark-blue, low-heeled pumps. She was still out of breath, but she kept up with him as he began crossing the street, and then impulsively took his arm.

  “There,” she said, “what the hell! If we’re doing this, we might as well do it, huh?”

  “What?”

  “I mean, if I’m with you. I’m with you. So I’m with you, so I’ll take your arm the same way I’d take the arm of a colored fellow I was with, right?”

  “Right,” Roger said.

  “I’ve never been out with a white man before.”

  “Neither have I,” Roger said, and burst out laughing. “With a colored girl, I mean.”

  “That’s good,” Amelia said.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I wouldn’t like to think you were one of those guys who just dug, you know, all colored girls. That would make it a drag.”

  “There isn’t a single colored girl in all Carey,” Roger said.

  “They’re all married?” Amelia asked seriously, and he burst out laughing again. “What’s the matter?”

  “I meant there aren’t any,” Roger said. “Not a one.”

  “That’s too bad,” Amelia said. “What do you do for race riots?”

  “We pick on Jews,” Roger said, and realized he had made a pretty good joke, and was pleased when Amelia laughed at what he’d said. He didn’t really know why there was any humor in his comment, except that the people in Carey didn’t pick on Jews. In fact there was one Jew in all of Carey, a man named Samuel Silverstein, who ran the hardware store and who had arthritis, poor man, why would anyone want to go picking on him? He knew he never would have said anything like that to his mother or to Buddy, but somehow being with Amelia made him seem witty and daring, which was why he had made the joke. He was suddenly very glad she’d come after him.

  “You always go chasing strange men in the streets?” he asked.

  “Sure. You always go telling strange girls to hang up their aprons and pretend to be sick and—”

  “A headache isn’t sick,” Roger said.

  “—and meet you on street corners, and then disappear?”

  “Right into thin air!” he said. “Mandrake the Magician!”

  “That’s what you do, huh?”

  “Yeah, I’m a magician,” Roger said, beaming.

  “You go into drugstores and work your charms on poor little colored girls.”

  “Are you poor?” he said.

  “I’m very poor.”

  “Really?”

  “Hey, mister, you think I’d joke about being poor?” Amelia said. “What the hell is that to joke about? I’m very poor. I mean it. I, am, very, poor.”

  “I am very rich,” Roger said.

  “Good. I knew one day I’d meet a white millionaire who’d take me away from it all,” Amelia said.

  “That’s me.”

  “Mandrake.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Yesterday, I made one hundred twenty-two dollars. How about that?”

  “That’s a lot of money.”

  “Today, I’ve only got, oh, maybe fifteen dollars of it left.”

  “Easy come, easy go,” Amelia said, and shrugged.

  “What I did was mail a hundred to my mother.”

  “Up in Gulchwater, right?”

  “Up in Carey.”

  “Oh, I thought it was called Gulchwater Basin.”

  “No, it’s called Carey.”

  “I thought you said it was Gulchwater Depot.”

  “No, Carey.”

  “Alongside Huddlesworth, right?”

  “Huddleston.”

  “Where they toboggan.”

  “Where they ski.”

  “Right, I knew I had it,” Amelia said.

  “Anyway,” Roger said, laughing. “I sent her—my mother—I sent her a hundred, and I paid four dollars for my room, and I bought the cards and some stamps and had some coffee and paid for Ralph’s hot chocolate and—”

  “Ralph?”

  “A fellow I met.” Roger paused. “He’s a drug addict.”

  “You meet nice people,” Amelia said.

  “He was,” Roger said. “A nice person, I mean.”

  “My mother has told each and every one of us in our house,” Amelia said, “that if we ever touch any of that stuff, she will personally cripple us. She means it. My mother is a very skinny woman made of iron. She would rather see us dead than on junk.”

  “Is it that easy to get?” Roger asked.

  “If you have the money, you can get it. In this city, if you have the money, you can get anything you want.”

  “That’s what Ralph said.”

  “Ralph knows. Ralph is a very wise man.”

  “Anyway, here’s what I’ve got left,” Roger said, and reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded packet of bills and transferred those to his left hand, and then reached into his pocket again for his loose change. The change totaled 72¢, and the bills were two fives and four singles. “Fourteen dollars and seventytwo cents,” he said.

  “A millionaire. Just like you said.”

  “Right.”

  “Right,” she said.

  “What would you like to do?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Show me the city. Show me your city.”

  “My city? This ain’t my city, Amelia.”

  “I mean the white man’s city.”

  “I wouldn’t know his city from your city. I’m a stranger here.”

  “Looking for a friend outside the police station,” she said suddenly.

  “Yes,” he said, and watched her.

  “Who you never found.”

  “Who I never bothered looking for.”

  “Bad place to look,” Amelia said. “Where are you going to take me, mister? Uptown, downtown, crosstown? Where?”

  “I know where,” he said.

  “Where?”

  “There’s a place I’ve always wanted to go. My mother brought me to the city for the first time when I was ten years old, and we were supposed to go then, but it rained that day. Come on,” he said, and took her hand.

  “Where?” she said.

  “Come on.”

  The Ferris wheels were motionless, the roller-coaster tracks hung on wooden stilts against a forbidding February sky, devoid of hurtling cars or screaming youngsters. The boardwalk stands were sealed tight, shuttered against the wind that howled in over the ocean and raised whirling eddies of sand on the beach, leaping the iron-pipe railing and hurling itself hopelessly against the weathered boards. Last summer’s newspapers fluttered into the air, yellowed and torn, flapping wildly like alien birds and then soaring over the minarets of an amusement called The Arabian Nights. The rides huddled beneath their canvas covers in seemingly expectant watchfulness, waiting for a sparrow, silent, motionless, the wind ripping at the covers and making a faint whistling sound as it caught in metal studs and struts. There were no barkers touting games of chance or skill, no vendors selling hot dogs or slices of pizza, no sound but the sound of the wind and the ocean.

  The boardwalk benches were a flaking green.

  An old man stood at the far end of the boardwalk, looking out over the ocean, un-moving.

  “You’ve never been here before?” Amelia asked.

  “No,” Roger said.

  “You picked the right time to come.”

  “It’s kind of spooky, isn’t it?” he said, and thought of Molly the night before.

  “It’s like standing on the edge of the world,” Amelia said, and he turned to look at her curiously. “What is it?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. What you said. I felt that a minute ago. As if there was just the two of us standing on the edge of the world.”

  “The three of us.”

  “What? Oh, yes, the old man down there.”

  “He’s really my dueña,” Amelia said.

  “What’s that?”

  “A dueña? That’s Spanish for chaperone. In Spain, when a young girl goes out with a boy, she has to take along a dueña, usually an aunt or some other relative. My father told me about that. He’s Spanish, you know, did I tell you?”