Papa’s Pizza turned out to be on the market’s south side, across from a cinder-block wall where a row of step-up shoeshine stands loomed empty, like abdicated thrones. A bored teenager sat by the stands on a low stool with a shoe rag slung across his knees. His name tag bore a strip of masking tape, on which LUIS was printed in shaky ballpoint. The boy perked up when he saw Keegan coming towards him, but Keegan shook his head at him and sat down at the end stool at Papa’s counter—as instructed. The kid quickly sank back into lethargy.

It took a minute or two for the white-haired man behind Papa’s counter to look up from his Press-Telegram and realize he had a customer. Three o’clock on a sweltering Monday was clearly not the lunch rush. The man folded up his paper and set it beside the register. He came down to Keegan’s end of the counter and asked him what he wanted.

Keegan knew he ought to buy something if he was going to occupy the man’s stool. He looked at the chalked daily menu mounted on the back of the stall. A good, greasy meal would probably help settle his stomach, but pizza seemed like a bad idea. He didn’t want to be caught—mouth full, slick-chinned—when Catling, whoever he was, showed up. Keegan just asked for a Bubble Up, lots of ice, and then looked at his wristwatch, so the man knew he didn’t plan to stay.

It was three o’clock exactly.

Papa set Keegan’s drink in front of him, in a waxy paper cup without a lid, and gave the counter a cursory wipe-down with a damp rag. He went back to his stool and his newspaper. For a while, a couple of women behind a knock-off perfume counter argued stridently in a language Keegan couldn’t identify. By the time his watch read 3:07, he was feeling antsy. How long was it proper to wait for a man who wouldn’t even leave you his phone number? How much longer would his Florsheims be safe in a hot apartment with a bored terrier?

By 3:10, Keegan’s soda cup held nothing but melting ice and a chewed straw. He’d come all the way downtown on a sweltering Monday for a no-show. Welcome back to work. He took a single from his wallet, smoothed it on Papa’s counter and pinned it down with a parmesan shaker. He rose to his feet, and a phone rang aggressively behind him, making him jump. He turned to find a battered payphone mounted on the cinder-block wall in a dim corner beside the shoeshine stands. He hadn’t noticed it before, but its shrill ringing now set his nerves jangling.

Luis, shiner of shoes, swiveled his head from the phone to Keegan and back again. He shrugged and grinned, and showed no inclination to get up off his stool and answer it.

Keegan went over and picked up the receiver halfway through the fourth ring.