“Don’t jump over anything. You’ll get caught and then you’ll be calling me to come to the police station to bail you out. Are you sufficiently presentable where a cab would — oh, this is silly.”

“No it’s not. I’ll do what you say. A cab. I’ll spruce myself up enough so one will take me. Could you leave ten dollars in that envelope behind the bells? Or maybe, so you don’t have to come downstairs alone, wait till I ring your bell.”

“I’ll leave it behind the bellboard now. Ten dollars — one five and five singles — I know I have those — so you won’t have to call me from downstairs for change or for more. But remember, I don’t know you, but we’ve mutual friends and you’re cultured and a scholar—”

“Scholar? Not me.”

“I have your Japanese story anthology, or one of them, and it lists—”

“How’d you get that prize? You weren’t one of the approved three hundred something people and libraries who were licensed to buy it? — that would be too much.”

“However I got it, I’m doing you a favor beyond the call of mutual friendship and professional fellowship and at an hour way beyond my deliberative decision-making and common sense time, so you will be on your best behavior?”

“The absolute best, bar none, of that I double-swear.”

“You have the address?”

“From the phonebook.”

“Then at this hour, despite how you might look, cabbies will have to see something of the noncombatant on your face and they go hurting for fares, so I should expect to see you in about thirty minutes — try not to make it later. I’m dead to the world.”

“Thanks. Thanks. Thanks.”

“Please get on with it then. Apartment 9B. Just ring it and I’ll buzz you in,” and I hang up.

CHAPTER SEVEN. The Apartment

He hangs up, smiles, slides the door open and goes outside, slaps his fist into his palm and thinks I can’t believe it, says “She’s done dood it, damn woman’s come across. Not ‘damn,’ but I’m seeing her, maybe in minutes, hot dog.” Looks around, nobody around, no good gabbing out loud to yourself on the street at any hour, not that in this city you could be put away for it. Put away? Hey, where’d that one come from? Not his but was his father’s expression, along with — well whatever along with, but “Talk back to your mother or me like that and you could be put away.” Oh dad, just look at me now. Holds out his arms, looks up at the sky and smiles. No, don’t want to act odd either. Looks around, nobody around, sounds of someone whistling sweetly from somewhere — an Irish air — rather, Stephen Foster: Ginny, Jeanie, shiny orange-red hair (what did I decide on?) — but can’t see him and now drowned-out by traffic. Traffic goes, no music. Though he first thought worst possible don’t-even-think-of-it thing to do was call her, but had a hunch she would. “Best behavior”; you bet. Now and forever, or to whenever, till hell freezes over and life ever after and I can’t exaggerate any further; for sure. Ah! “If I’ve one thing in life to teach you it’s don’t work for anyone: be your own boss.” Okay — eyes to the sky and arms out again — so I’m my own boss: now you proud of me? But he meant becoming a dentist, doctor, opening up my own law office. But now to get there. How to get there? In his head: “Tweee! — Taxi!” and first one to come stops. New roomy Checker. Slips in, flips the jump seat down but keeps its backrest folded, legs up on it but feet hanging over the seat so not to sully it. “Where to sir?.…Turn the heater up for you some more, sir?…Switch the radio station to something more to your liking like choral music, sir?…Wait for you in front while you get the fare from behind the what, sir? Bellboard? Of course, but sure you don’t mean the apartments’ intercom?” He steps into the street. Watch. Two-to-one none comes and if one does, five-to-one it won’t stop. From now on on damp cold nights, snowy or otherwise and maybe daytimes too, going to carry in my back pants pocket an extra pair of socks.