"Yes," he said. "I still have it."

"It's just."

"Sitting there," Joe said. "In the East Side Stage Crafts Credit Union. Since ... well, since the Ark of Miriam Ark of Miriam sank. On December 6, 1941." sank. On December 6, 1941."

"Twelve years and four months."

"Sitting there."

"That's a long time, too," Sammy said.

Joe agreed with this.

"I guess there really isn't any reason to leave it there," he said. The thought of working with Sammy again was very appealing. He had just spent five years drawing a comic book; all day, every day, taking a break every now and then, just long enough to read a comic book or two. He considered himself, at this point, to be the greatest comic book artist in the history of the world. He could dilate a crucial episode in the life of a character over ten pages, slicing his panels ever thinner until they stopped time completely and yet tumbled past with the irreversible momentum of life itself. Or he could spread a single instant across two pages in a single giant panel crammed with dancers, laboratory equipment, horses, trees and shadows, soldiers, drunken revelers at a wedding. When the mood called for it, he could do panels that were more than half shadow; pure black; and yet have everything visible and clear, the action unmistakable, the characters' expressions plain. With his un-English ear, he had made a study of, and understood, as the great comic artists always have, the power of written sound-effect words-of invented words like snik snik and and plish plish and and doit doit-appropriately lettered, for lending vividness to a jackknife, a rain puddle, a half-crown against the bottom of a blind man's empty tin cup. And yet he had run out of things to draw. His Golem Golem was finished, or nearly so, and for the first time in years he found himself-as on every level of his life and emotions- wondering what he was going to do next. was finished, or nearly so, and for the first time in years he found himself-as on every level of his life and emotions- wondering what he was going to do next.

"You'd think I would," he began. "You would think I'd be able to."

More than anything else, he wanted to be able to do something for Sammy. It shocked him to see just how beaten, how unhappy Sam had become. What a feat it would be, to reach into the dark sleeve of his past and pull out something that completely altered Sammy's condition; something that saved him, freed him, returned him to life. With a stroke of the pen, he would be able to hand Sammy, according to the ancient mysteries of the League, a golden key, to pa.s.s along the gift of liberation that he had received and that had, until now, gone unpaid.

"I know that I should," Joe continued. His voice thickened as he spoke, and his cheeks burned. He was crying; he had no idea why. "Oh, I should just get rid of it all."

"No, Joe." Now it was Sammy's turn to put his arm around Joe. "I understand you don't want to touch that money. I mean, I think I understand. I get that it... well, that it represents something to you that you don't want to ever forget."

"I forget every day," Joe said. He tried to smile. "You know? Days go by, and I don't remember not to forget."

"You just keep your money," Sammy said gently. "I don't need to own Empire Comics. That's the last thing I need."

"I... I couldn't. Sammy, I wish that I could, but I couldn't."

"I get it, Joe," Sammy said. "You just hold on to your money."

15

The day after the Escapist, Master of Elusion, whom no chains could hold nor walls imprison, was ruled out of existence by the New York State Court of Appeals, a white delivery van of modest dimensions pulled up in front of 127 Lavoisier Drive. On its panels, blue script like the writing on a beer bottle said bachelor b.u.t.ton drayage inc. new york , arched over a painted nosegay of pet.i.te blue flowers. It was getting on toward five o'clock of a dull April afternoon, and though there was still plenty of daylight, the van's lights were turned on, as if for a funeral procession. It had been raining in fits all day, and with the approach of dusk, the heavy sky itself seemed to be settling, like a blanket, over Bloomtown, in gray folds and plaits among the houses. The slender trunks of the young maples, sycamores, and pin oaks on the neighbors' lawns looked white, almost phosph.o.r.escent, against the darker gray stuff of the afternoon.

The driver cut his engine, switched off the lights, and climbed down from the cab. He cranked the heavy latch at the back of the van, slid the bar to one side, and threw open the doors with a steely creak of hinges. He was an improbably diminutive man for his trade, thickset and bowlegged, in a bright blue coverall. As Rosa watched him through the front windows of the house, she saw him stare in at his payload with what appeared to be a puzzled expression. She supposed, given Sammy's description, that the hundred and two boxes of comic books and other junk that Joe had acc.u.mulated must make a strong impression even on a veteran mover. But perhaps the guy was only trying to decide how in the h.e.l.l he was going to get all those boxes into the house by himself.

"What's he doing?" Tommy said. He stood beside her at the living-room window. He had just eaten three bowls of rice pudding, and he had a milky baby smell.

"Probably wondering how we're ever going to fit all of that c.r.a.p into this shoe box," Rosa said. "I can't believe Joe contrived not to be here for this."

"You said 'c.r.a.p.' "

"Sorry."

"Can I say 'c.r.a.p'?"

"No." Rosa was wearing a sauce-spattered ap.r.o.n, and held a wooden spoon bloodied in the same red sauce. "I can't believe it all fits inside that one little truck."

"Ma, when is Joe coming back?"

"I'm sure he'll be back any minute." This was probably the fourth time she had said this since Tommy had come home from school. "I'm making chile con carne and rice pudding. He won't want to miss that."

"He really likes your cooking."

"He always did."

"He said if he never sees another pork chop again, it will be too soon."

"I would never cook a pork chop."

"Bacon is pork, and we eat bacon."

"Bacon is not actually pork. There are words in the Talmud to that effect."

They went out onto the front step.

"Kavalier?" the man called, trying to rhyme the name with its French cognate.

"As in Maurice," Rosa said.

"Got a package."

"That's kind of an understatement, isn't it?"

The man didn't reply. He climbed up inside his truck and disappeared for a while. First a wooden ramp emerged from the back, like a tongue, reaching toward the neighbors' Buick, then lolling on the ground. After that, there was a lot of banging and clamor, as though the man were in there rolling around a keg of beer. Presently he emerged, wrestling a hand truck down the ramp, under the weight of a large oblong wooden box.

"What is that?" Rosa said.

"I never saw that at Joe's," Tommy said. "Wow, it must be part of his equipment! It looks like a-oh my gosh-it's a packing crate escape! Oh, my gosh. Do you think he's going to teach me how to do it?" Oh, my gosh. Do you think he's going to teach me how to do it?"

I don't even know if he's ever coming back. "I don't know what he's going to do, honey," she said.

When Joe and Sammy had returned from the city last night with news of the Escapist's pa.s.sing, they both seemed pensive, and said little before they each went to bed. Sammy seemed diffident, even apologetic, around Joe, scrambling up some eggs for him, asking him were they too runny, were they too dry, offering to fry some potatoes. Joe was monosyllabic, almost curt, Rosa would have said; he went to lie down on the couch without having exchanged more than a few dozen words with either Rosa or Sam. She saw that something had pa.s.sed between the two men, but since neither of them said anything about it, she a.s.sumed it must have simply concerned the demise of their brainchild; perhaps they had engaged in recriminations over lost opportunities.

The news had certainly come as a shock to Rosa. Though she had not been a regular reader since the days of Kavalier Clay-Sammy wouldn't have Empire books in the house-she still checked in with Radio Radio and and Escapist Adventures Escapist Adventures from time to time, killing a half hour at a Grand Central newsstand, or while waiting for a prescription at Spiegelman's. The character had long since slipped into cultural inconsequence, but the t.i.tles in which he starred had continued, as far as she knew, to sell. She'd a.s.sumed, more or less unconsciously, that the heroic puss of the Escapist would always be there, on lunch boxes, beach towels, on cereal boxes and belt buckles and the faces of alarm clocks, even on the Mutual Television Network, from time to time, killing a half hour at a Grand Central newsstand, or while waiting for a prescription at Spiegelman's. The character had long since slipped into cultural inconsequence, but the t.i.tles in which he starred had continued, as far as she knew, to sell. She'd a.s.sumed, more or less unconsciously, that the heroic puss of the Escapist would always be there, on lunch boxes, beach towels, on cereal boxes and belt buckles and the faces of alarm clocks, even on the Mutual Television Network,[19][19] taunting her with the wealth and the unimaginable contentment that, though she knew better, she could never help feeling would have been Sammy's had he been able to reap the fruits of the one irrefutable moment of inspiration vouchsafed him in his scattershot career. Rosa had stayed up very late trying to work, worrying about them both, and then slept in even later than usual. By the time she had woken up, both Joe and the Studebaker were gone. All his clothes were in his valise, and there was no note. Sammy seemed to feel these were good signs. taunting her with the wealth and the unimaginable contentment that, though she knew better, she could never help feeling would have been Sammy's had he been able to reap the fruits of the one irrefutable moment of inspiration vouchsafed him in his scattershot career. Rosa had stayed up very late trying to work, worrying about them both, and then slept in even later than usual. By the time she had woken up, both Joe and the Studebaker were gone. All his clothes were in his valise, and there was no note. Sammy seemed to feel these were good signs.

"He would leave a note," he said when she phoned him at the office. "If he were. Going to leave, I mean."

"There wasn't any note the last time," Rosa said.

"I really don't think he would steal our car."

Now here were all his things, and Joe was not. It was as if he had pulled a subst.i.tution trick on them, the old switcheroo.

"I guess we'll have to just cram it all into the garage," she said.

The stout little mover wheeled the crate up the walk to the front door, puffing and grimacing and nearly running off into the pansies. When he reached Rosa and Tommy, he tipped the hand truck forward onto its bracket. The crate tottered and seemed to consider pitching over before it settled, with a shiver, on its end.

"Weighs a ton," he said, flexing his fingers as if they were sore. "What's he got in there, bricks?"

"It's probably iron chains," Tommy explained in an authoritative tone. "And, like, padlocks and junk."

The man nodded. "A box of iron chains," he said. "Figures. Pleased to meetcha." He wiped his right hand down the front of his coverall and offered it to Rosa. "Al b.u.t.ton."

"Are you in fact a bachelor?" said Rosa.

"The name of the firm," Al b.u.t.ton said with an air of genuine regret, "is a little out-of-date." He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a sheaf of waybills and carbons, then took a pen from another breast pocket and uncapped it. "I'm going to need your John Hanc.o.c.k on this."

"Don't I need to sort of check everything off as you bring it in?" Rosa said. "That's how it worked when we moved out here from Brooklyn."

"You can go right ahead and check that off, if you want to," he said, with a nod to the crate as he handed the packet to Rosa. "That's all I have for you today."

Rosa checked the bill and found that it did itemize a single article, described pithily as Wood box. Wood box. She paged through the other sheets of paper, but they were just carbon copies of the first. She paged through the other sheets of paper, but they were just carbon copies of the first.

"Where's the rest of it?"

"That's the only thing that I'm aware of," b.u.t.ton said. "Maybe you know better than me."

"There are supposed to be more than a hundred boxes coming out from the city. From the Empire State Building. Joe-Mr. Kavalier- arranged for the shipment yesterday afternoon."

"This didn't come from the Empire State Building, lady. I picked it up this morning at Penn Station."

"Penn Station? Wait a minute." She started to shuffle through the papers and carbons again. "Who is this from?" While the shipper's name was not quite legible, it did seem to begin with a R. The address, however, was a post-office box in Halifax, Nova Scotia. Rosa wondered if Joe had made it that far during his period of wandering, just after the war, and had left this box of whatever was in it behind.

"Nova Scotia," she said. "Who does Joe know in Nova Scotia?"

"And how did they know he was here?" Tommy said.

It was a very good question. Only the police and a few people at Pharaoh knew that Joe was staying with the Clays.

Rosa signed for the crate, and then Al b.u.t.ton jostled and cajoled it into the living room, where Rosa and Tommy helped him to walk it off of the dolly and onto the low-pile wall-to-wall.

"A box full of chains," b.u.t.ton repeated, his hand rough and dry against Rosa's. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph."

After he left, closing up his truck and winding his funereal way back to the city, Rosa and Tommy stood there in the living room, studying the wood box. It was a good two feet taller than Rosa, and nearly twice as broad. It was made of solid pine, knotty and unvarnished except by the abrading rasp of its travels, dark yellow and stained like an animal's tooth. You could tell somehow, looking at it, that it had come a long way, suffered ill handling and exposure, had ign.o.ble things spilled on it. It had been used as a table, perhaps, a bed, a barricade. There were black scuffs, and the corners and edges were tufted with splinters. If these were not suggestive enough of wide journeying, there was the incredible profusion of its labels: customs stamps and shipping-line decals, quarantine stickers and claim checks and certificates of weight. In places they were layered a few deep, bits of place-name and color and handwriting all jumbled together. It reminded Rosa of a Cubist collage, a Kurt Schwitters. Clearly, Halifax was not the crate's point of origin. Rosa and Tommy tried to trace its history, peeling away at the layers of seal and sticker, timidly at first, then more carelessly as they were led backward from Halifax to Helsinki, to Murmansk, to Memel, to Leningrad, to Memel once more, to Vilnius, in Lithuania, and finally, sc.r.a.ping away now with the point of a kitchen knife at a particularly recalcitrant carbuncle of adhesive paper near the center of what appeared to be the crate's lid, to "Prague," said Rosa. "What do you know."

"He's home," Tommy said, and Rosa didn't understand what he meant until she heard the sound of the Studebaker in the drive.

16

Joe had left the house very early that morning. For hours after saying good night to Rosa and Sammy, and long after they went to bed, Joe had lain awake on the couch in the living room, tormented by his thoughts and by the occasional brief giggle from the tank of the toilet down the hall. He had arranged for monthly withdrawals to pay the rent on the offices of Kornblum Vanishing Creams, Inc., and had not permitted himself to consider the total sum of the money he had on deposit in a very long time. The variety of the grandiose and homely schemes it had once been intended to fund was extravagant-he had at one time lavishly overspent in his imagination-and after the war, the money always felt to him like a debt owed, and unrepayable. He had bankrupted himself on plans: a house for his family in Riverdale or Westchester, a flat for his old teacher Bernard Kornblum in a nice building on the Upper West Side. He saw to it, in his fantasies, that his mother obtained the services of a cook, a fur coat, the leisure to write and to see patients as little as she chose. Her study in the big Tudor house had a bay window and heavy timbering, which she painted white because she dreaded gloomy rooms. It was bright and uncluttered, with Navajo rugs and cacti in pots. For his grandfather, there were an entire wardrobe of suits, a dog, a Panamuse record player like Sammy's. His grandfather sat in the conservatory with three elderly friends and sang Weber songs to the accompaniment of their flutes. For Thomas, there were riding lessons, fencing lessons, trips to the Grand Canyon, a bicycle, a set of encylopedias, and-that most-coveted item for sale in the pages of comic books-an air rifle, so that Thomas could shoot at crows or woodchucks or (more likely given his tender feelings) tin cans, when they went out, at weekends, to the country house up in Putnam County that Joe was going to buy.

These designs of his embarra.s.sed him almost as much as they saddened him. But the truth was that, as he lay there smoking, in his underpants, Joe was tormented, even more than by the ruins of his fatuous dreams, by the knowledge that even now, down in the mysterious manufactory of foolishness that was synonymous in some way with his heart, they were tooling up to bring out an entire new line of moonshine. He could not stop coming up with ideas-costume designs and backdrops, character names, narrative lines-for a series of comic books based on Jewish aggadah aggadah and folklore; it was as if they had been there all along, wanting only a nudge from Sammy to come tumbling out in a thrilling disorder. The notion of spending the $974,000 that was steadily compounding at the East Side Stage Crafts Credit Union to float the recommissioned Kavalier Clay agitated him so much that his stomach hurt. No, agitation was not the honest word for it. What he felt was and folklore; it was as if they had been there all along, wanting only a nudge from Sammy to come tumbling out in a thrilling disorder. The notion of spending the $974,000 that was steadily compounding at the East Side Stage Crafts Credit Union to float the recommissioned Kavalier Clay agitated him so much that his stomach hurt. No, agitation was not the honest word for it. What he felt was excited. excited.

Sammy had been right about long-underwear heroes in 1939; Joe had a feeling that he was right in 1954. William Gaines and his E.C. Comics had taken all but one of the standard comic book genres- romance, Western, war stories, crime, the supernatural, et cetera-and invested them with darker emotions, less childish plots, stylish pencils, and moody inks. The only genre they had ignored or avoided (except to ridicule it in the pages of Mad) Mad) was that of the costumed superhero. What if-he was not sure if this was what Sammy had in mind, but after all, it would be his money-the same kind of transformation were attempted on the superhero? If they tried to do stories about costumed heroes who were more complicated, less childish, as fallible as angels. was that of the costumed superhero. What if-he was not sure if this was what Sammy had in mind, but after all, it would be his money-the same kind of transformation were attempted on the superhero? If they tried to do stories about costumed heroes who were more complicated, less childish, as fallible as angels.

At last he ran out of cigarettes and gave up on sleep for the night. He pulled his clothes back on, took a banana from the bowl on the kitchen counter, and stepped outside.

It was not yet five o'clock in the morning, and the Bloomtown streets were deserted, the houses dark, furtive, all but invisible. A steady salt breeze blew in from the sea eight miles away. Later, it would bring fitful rain and the gloom that Mr. Al b.u.t.ton would attempt to relieve by turning on the wan headlights of his van, but for now there were no clouds, and the sky that, in this single-story town of stunted saplings and barren lawns, could seem, by day, as unbearably tall and immense as the sky over some blasted Nebraska prairie, was bestowing itself upon Bloomtown like a blessing, filling in the emptiness with dark blue velveteen and stars. A dog barked two blocks away, and the sound raised gooseflesh on Joe's arm. He had been on and around the Atlantic Ocean plenty of times since the sinking of the Ark of Miriam; Ark of Miriam; the train of a.s.sociation linking Thomas, in Joe's mind, to the body of water that had swallowed him had long since worn away. But from time to time, especially if, as now, his brother was already in his thoughts, the smell of the sea could unfurl the memory of Thomas like a flag. His snoring, the half-animal snuffle of his breath coming from the other bed. His aversion to spiders, lobsters, and anything that crept like a disembodied hand. A much-thumbed mental picture of him at the age of seven or eight, in a plaid bathrobe and bedroom slippers, sitting beside the Kavaliers' big Philips, knees to his chest, eyes shut tight, rocking back and forth while, with all his might, he listened to some Italian opera or other. the train of a.s.sociation linking Thomas, in Joe's mind, to the body of water that had swallowed him had long since worn away. But from time to time, especially if, as now, his brother was already in his thoughts, the smell of the sea could unfurl the memory of Thomas like a flag. His snoring, the half-animal snuffle of his breath coming from the other bed. His aversion to spiders, lobsters, and anything that crept like a disembodied hand. A much-thumbed mental picture of him at the age of seven or eight, in a plaid bathrobe and bedroom slippers, sitting beside the Kavaliers' big Philips, knees to his chest, eyes shut tight, rocking back and forth while, with all his might, he listened to some Italian opera or other.

That bathrobe, its lapels whipst.i.tched in heavy black thread; that radio, its lines Gothic and its dial, like an atlas of the ether, imprinted with the names of world capitals; those leather moccasins with their beaded tepees on the vamps-these were all things that he was never going to see again. The thought was ba.n.a.l, and yet somehow, as happened every now and then, it took him by surprise and profoundly disappointed him. It was absurd, but underlying his expedience of the world, at some deep Precambrian stratum, was the expectation that someday-but when?-he would return to the earliest chapters of his life. It was all there-somewhere-waiting for him. He would return to the scenes of his childhood, to the breakfast table of the apartment off the Graben, to the Oriental splendor of the locker room at the Militar-und Civilschwimmschule; not as a tourist to their ruins, but in fact; not by means of some enchantment, but simply as a matter of course. This conviction was not something rational or even seriously believed, but somehow it was there, like some early, fundamental error in his understanding of geography-that, for instance, Quebec lay to the west of Ontario-which no amount of subsequent correction or experience could ever fully erase. He realized now that this kind of hopeless but ineradicable conviction lay at the heart of his inability to let go of the money that he had banked all those years ago in the East Side Stage Crafts Credit Union. Somewhere in his heart, or wherever it was that such errors are cherished and fed, he believed that someone-his mother, his grandfather, Bernard Kornblum-might still, in spite of everything, turn up. Such things happened all the time; those reported shot in Lodz Ghetto or carried off by typhus at the Zehlendorf DP camp turned up owning grocery stores in Sao Paulo or knocking on the front door of a brother-in-law in Detroit looking for a handout, older, frailer- altered beyond recognition or disarmingly unchanged-but alive.

He went back into the house, tied his necktie, put on a jacket, and took the car keys from their hook in the kitchen. He was not sure where he was going to go, not at first, but the smell of the sea lingered in his nose, and he had a vague notion of taking the car and driving down to Fire Island for an hour, returning before anybody even knew that he was gone.

The idea of driving excited excited him, too. From the moment he saw it, Sammy and Rosa's car had aroused his interest. The navy had taught Joe to drive, and he had taken to it with his usual aplomb. His happiest moments during the war had been three brief trips he had made behind the wheel of a jeep at Guantanamo Bay. That was a dozen years ago; he hoped he had not forgotten how. him, too. From the moment he saw it, Sammy and Rosa's car had aroused his interest. The navy had taught Joe to drive, and he had taken to it with his usual aplomb. His happiest moments during the war had been three brief trips he had made behind the wheel of a jeep at Guantanamo Bay. That was a dozen years ago; he hoped he had not forgotten how.

He found his way out onto Route 24 without any problem, but somehow or other he missed the turn to East Islip, and before he quite recognized it, he was on his way into the city. The car smelled of Rosa's lipstick and Sammy's hair cream and a salt-and-wool residue of winter. There was almost no one on the road for a long time, and when he encountered other travelers, he felt a mild sense of pleasant kinship with them as they followed the light of their headlights into the western darkness. On the radio, Rosemary Clooney was singing "Hey There," and then when he gave the dial a spin she was there again, singing "This Ole House." He rolled down the window and sometimes there was a sound of gra.s.ses and night bugs and sometimes the lowing of a train. Joe loosened his grip on the wheel and lost himself in the string sections of the hit songs and the rumble of the Champion's straight-8. After a while he realized that a fair amount of time had gone by without his having thought of anything at all, least of all about what exactly he was going to do when he reached New York.

Approaching the Williamsburg Bridge-not really certain of how he had managed to find himself there-he experienced an extraordinary moment of buoyancy, of grace. There was a lot more traffic now, but his shifting was smooth and the st.u.r.dy little car was adroit at changing lanes. He launched himself out over the East River. He could feel the bridge humming underneath his wheels and all around him could sense the engineering of it, the forces and tensions and rivets that were all conspiring to keep him aloft. To the south, he glimpsed the Manhattan Bridge, with its Parisian air, refined, elegant, its skirts hiked to reveal tapered steel legs, and, beyond, the Brooklyn Bridge, like a great ropy strand of muscle. In the other direction lay the Queensboro Bridge, like two great iron tsarinas linking hands to dance. And before him, the city that had sheltered him and swallowed him and made him a modest fortune loomed, gray and brown, festooned with swags and boas of some misty gray stuff, a compound of harbor fog and spring dew and its own steamy exhalations. Hope had been his enemy, a frailty that he must at all costs master, for so long now that it was a moment before he was willing to concede that he had let it back into his heart.

At Union Square West, he pulled up in front of the Workingman's Credit Building, home of the East Side Stage Crafts Credit Union. Of course there was nowhere to park. Traffic piled up at the Studebaker's rear as Joe trolled for a s.p.a.ce, and each time he slowed, the angry fanfare of horns started up again. A bus came roaring out from behind him, and the faces of its pa.s.sengers glared down at him from the windows, or mocked him in his inept.i.tude with their blank indifference. On his third time around the block, Joe slowed once more in front of the building. The curb here was painted bright red. Joe sat, trying to decide what to do. Inside the grimy magnificent pile of the Workingman's Credit Building, in the gloomy transom-lit offices of the Crafts Union bank, the account lay slumbering under years of interest and dust. All he had to do was go in there and say that he wanted to make a withdrawal.

There was a rap on the window on his side of the car. Joe jumped, stepping on the gas as he did so. The car lurched forward a few inches before he scrabbled his foot onto the brake and brought it to a halt with a rude little burp of the tires.

"Whoa!" cried the patrolman, who had come to inquire as to just what Joe meant by holding up the traffic on Fifth Avenue like this, at the busiest hour of the morning. He jumped away from the car, hopping on one leg, clutching at his shining left shoe with both hands.

Joe rolled down the window.

"You just ran over my foot!" the policeman said.

"I'm so sorry," Joe said.

The policeman returned his shoe to the pavement, cautiously, then settled his considerable weight onto it a little at a time. "I think it's all right. You ran over the empty bit at the toe. Lucky for you."

"I borrowed this car from my cousin," Joe said. "I maybe don't know it as well as I should."

"Yeah, well, you can't sit here, bub. You've been here ten minutes. You have to move on."

"That's impossible," Joe said. It could not have been more than one or two at the most. "Ten minutes."

The patrolman tapped his wrist. "I had my watch on you the minute you pulled up."

"I'm sorry, Officer," Joe said. "I just can't to figure out what I'm supposed to do now." He gestured with a thumb toward the Workingman's Credit Building. "My money's in there," he said.

"I don't care if your left b.u.t.tock is in there," the policeman said. "You'll have to get lost, mister."