“I just ast if you uz lookin’ for him is all. My girl friend tole me somebody uz lookin’ for him.”

“D’you know where he is?”

“No, I don’t, but when I seen you were a little boy, I only wanted to be friendly. D’you want to come over to my house?”

Clinton rose to his feet. “You don’t even know who I am, hardly.”

The girl took his hand and pulled him across the sidewalk toward the street. “C’mon, please?”

“Listen, who are you anyway?” Clinton said.

“I’m Shirley. What’s your name.”

“Clint,” he said. Then, “Hey, Shirley, tell me something, do you know where my brother is?”

“You already ast me that. And I don’t, honest. How come you’re lookin’ for him? Are you lost?”

“Me? No, I’m not lost. I’m just lookin’ for him.”

“I hope you’re not like him. ‘Cause he’s very, very mean sometimes.”

“Do you know him?”

“No, and I’ve never even talked to him, but my girl friend has.”

“Would she know where he is?”

“No, and she says she doesn’t care, either. And she won’t even talk to you, because you’re his brother and meanness runs in families. But I don’t believe that myself. Are you, though? Mean?”

“What’d my brother do that was mean?”

“I’m not a tattletale. Besides, I wasn’t there, and maybe it’s a lie. Now do you want to come home with me or not?”

“I can’t. I got to find my brother. —Besides, your folks don’t know me, or anything. And it’s late.”

Shirley laughed. “Don’t be silly, my folks are dead! My whole family is. I live over there.” She pointed across the street at the Tin Pot Arms Hotel. “Come on.” She guided him into the street.

Clinton saw a police car in front of the hotel. The officer in the front seat was smoking a cigarette. Clinton could not see the man clearly, but he knew that it was Ramírez and that he was being watched by him.

As they passed through the lobby, the old clerk stared at them indifferently. Shirley turned with sudden shrewishness toward the desk and shouted in a lower, almost harsh voice, through clenched teeth: “He’s only gonna visit! So why don’t you mind your own business, you filthy thing!” The clerk looked away as if he had heard nothing, seen nothing. Once out of his line of vision, Shirley giggled, and with a child’s sense of conspiracy ran tiptoe up the stairs, with Clinton close beside her. But when she paused to catch her breath at the top, she seemed much older, perhaps thirty or more. She looked at Clinton quickly, almost guiltily, from the corner of her eye: had he sensed this flaw in her game of childhood?

“Come on!” she said, leading the way up the hall. At her door, she stopped once again. “Now you wait here, and keep your eyes closed till I say okay. Okay?” Clinton closed his eyes.

Shirley stepped inside. He could hear the sounds of hurried activity within the room. After a moment, she took his hand and led him to the center of her room.