They were standing there with their dicks in their hands--what the hell, this was five-thirty in the morning, the streets were deserted except for the three old farts standing around the oil drum looking like three monks in their hooded parkas, certainly intending no affront, merely answering the call of nature, so to speak, on a dark and stormless night. It was not perceived in quite this manner by the black man who came out of the night like a solitary guardian of public decency, the sole member of the Pissing in Public Patrol, dressed in black as black as the night, black jeans, black boots, a black leather jacket, a black O.J. Simpson watch cap pulled down over his ears.

He came striding toward them at exactly the same moment Yolande stepped into a taxi a mile and a half downtown.

"Thing I hate about the boneyard shift," Hawes said, "is you just start getting used to it and you're back on the day shift again."

Carella was dialing his home number.

The boneyard shift was the graveyard shift, which was the so-called morning shift that kept you up all night.

Fanny piked up on the third ring.

"How is he?" Carella asked.

angel." She paused for the briefest tick of "Which is what I'd like to be doing," she said.

"Sorry," Carella said. "I won't call again. See you in a few hours."

That's what he thought.

"You a working girl?" the cabbie asked. "You a cop?" Yolande said.

"Sure, a cop," he said.

"Then mind your own business," she said.

"I'm just wondering if you know where you're going."

"I know where I'm going."

"White girl going up to Diamondback..."

"I said I..."

"This hour of the night."

"I know where I'm going. And it's morning." "By me, it ain't morning till the sun comes up."

Yolande shrugged. It had been a pretty good night for her, and She was exhausted.

"Why you going to Diamondback?" the cabbie asked. His name on the plastic-enclosed permit on the dashboard to the right of the meter read MAX LIEBOWITZ. Jewish, Yolande thought. Last dying breed of big-city cabdrivers. Nowadays, most of your cabbies were from India or the Middle east. Some of them couldn't speak English. None knew where Duckworth Avenue was. Yolande knew where it was. She had blown a Colombian drug on Duckworth Avenue in Calm's Point. He had given her a five-hundred-dollar tip. She would never

Duckworth Avenue in her life. She wondered if Max Liebowitz knew where Duckworth Avenue was. She wondered if Max Liebowitz knew she herself was Jewish.

"I didn't hear your answer, miss," he said.

"I live up there," she said.

"You live in Diamondback?" he said, and shot a glance at her in the rearview mirror.

"Yes."

Actually Jamal lived in Diamondback. All she did was live with Jamal.

Jamal Stone, no relation to Sharon, who had built a career by flashing her wookie. Yolande flashed her wookie a thousand times a day. Too bad she couldn't act. Then again, neither could a lot of girls who were good at flashing their wookies. "How come you live up there?"

Liebowitz asked. "I like paying cheap rent," she said.

Which wasn't exactly true. Jamal paid the rent. But he also took every penny she earned. Kept her in good shit, though. Speaking of which, it was getting to be about that time. She looked at her watch.

Twenty-five to six. Been a hard day's night.

"Worth your life, a white girl living up there," Liebowitz said.

Nice Jewish girl, no less, Yolande thought, but did not say it because she couldn't bear seeing a grown man cry. A nice Jewish girl like you?

Giving blow jobs to passing motorists at fifty bucks a throw. A Jewish girl? Suck your what? She almost smiled.

"So what are you then?" Liebowitz asked. "A dancer?"

"Yeah," she said, "how'd you guess?"

"Pretty girl like you, this hour of the night, I'm a dancer in one of the topless bars."

"Yeah, you hit it right on the head."

"I'm not a mind reader," Liebowitz said, chuckling. "You were standing in front of the Stardust when you hailed me."

Which was where she'd given some guy from Connecticut a twenty-dollar hand job while the girts onstage rattled and rolled.

"Yep," she said.

Tipped the manager two bills a night to let her freelance in the joint.

Pissed the regulars workin there, but gee, tough shit, honey.

"So where you from originally?" Liebowitz asked.

unlo, she said.

"I knew it wasn't here. You don't have the accent." She almost told him her father owned a deli in Cleveland. She didn't. She almost told him she had once been to Paris, France. She didn't. Yolande Marie was her mother's idea. Yolande Marie Marx, Known in the trade as Groucho, just kidding. known in the trade as Marie St. Claire, which Jamal had come up with, lot of difference it made to the johns on wheels. My name is Marie St. Claire, case you're interested. Nice to meet you, Marie, take it deeper.

She had nightmares about a john pulling up in a blue station wagon and she leans in the window and "Hey, hiya. Wanna party?" and she gets in the car and unzips his fly and it's her father. Dreamt that on average twice a week. Woke up in a cold sweat every time. Dear Dad, I am still working here in the toy shop, it's a shame you never get out of Cleveland now

that Mom's bedridden, maybe I'll be home for Yom Kippur. Sure. Take it deeper, hon.

"So do you have to do anything else at that bar?" "How do you mean?"

"You know," Liebowitz said, and looked at her in the rearview mirror.

"Besides dancing?"

She looked back at him. He had to be sixty years old, short bald-headed little fart could hardly see over the steering wheel.

Hitting on her. Next thing you knew he'd offer to barter. Fare on the meter was now six dollars and thirty cents. He'd agree to swap it for a quickie in the backseat. Nice Jewish man. Unzip his fly, out would pop her father. "So do you?" "Do what?"

"Other things beside dancing topless." "Yeah, I also sing topless,"