Dolores said nothing, but walked quickly back along the landing in her pink baby-doll nightie to where the telephone hung on the wall by the stairs. Nicolas heard her dialling, and knew that she was calling Sergeant Kyprianides. He felt short of breath, and afraid, but there was no point in waiting until the police turned up. They might not turn up at all, what with all the smashing and looting that was going on tonight throughout Milwaukee. They’d be busy taking care of the breweries, and the big department stores. What would they care about one small Greek delicatessen in the grittier part of town?

Nicolas went down the dark stairwell, unbolted the brown-painted door at the bottom, and pulled it cautiously open.

He was dazzled straight away by car headlights, directed right into the smashed-open store from a station wagon that had been pulled up across the sidewalk. There was a sharp smell of burning paint, and the night air was warm and electric with fright. He drew the door open a little further, and he could see the outline of a man in a plaid jacket, leaning over the frozen-food cabinet with a large plastic trash bag in one hand, helping himself to broccoli and asparagus spears and mixed vegetables and TV dinners. He could hear feet crunching on broken glass in back of the store, too, but from where he was standing he couldn’t see anybody.

‘Are you through with that frozen food yet?’ a voice demanded.

The man bent over the freezer cabinet said, ‘Give me a minute, will you?’ as he gathered up boxes of Hungry Man dinners by the armful.

Nicolas cocked his revolver, and stepped out into the store. He said, ‘Put up your hands,’ but at first nobody heard him.

Louder, he said, ‘Put up your hands!’

The man at the freezer cabinet turned around, slowly lifting one arm up, but keeping a tight hold on his plastic bag of frozen food with the other hand. He was young, maybe thirty-two, with a moustache and horn-rim eyeglasses. He looked like an ordinary suburbanite, not at all like a robber.

Nicolas edged his way along the shelves, keeping his back to the serried cans of tuna and eggplant, his revolver held high in both hands. As he moved around, he was able to catch sight of a blonde woman in a fawn tracksuit, standing beside his display of bottled fruits, and another young man, unshaven and dark, a Greek possibly, or an Italian, in army fatigues.

Nicolas said, ‘You lay down the stuff and you get out of here. You understand me? I’m used to dealing with bums.’

The man by the freezer cabinet said, ‘Mister – there’s no way we’re bums.’

‘You’re not bums? What are you doing looting my store, if you’re not bums? Now, get out of here.’

The woman said, ‘We’re sorry. But it’s the food crisis.’