‘Police!’ In his bedroom he lowered his window until it was too far closed to allow anyone to creep in. Lying on his back he listened. The night was silent again. He waited a long time. From six blocks away the elevated grumbled and stamped on toward Manhattan. There was no sound from the street any more. In bed he shook his head, trying to imagine what sort of woman would be out at this time of night, and alone. Or if not alone, then with that kind of man. Possibly she was returning from a night shift and had been molested by the man, a stranger. Improbable. Her accent satisfied Mr Newman that she was abroad at night for no good purpose, and it somehow convinced him that she could take care of herself because she was used to this sort of treatment. Puerto Ricans were, he knew.

Exhausted, dull again, hardly realizing he had been awake at all, he closed his eyes and tried to sleep. Slowly his round little fingers opened and his lips parted and sucked like the lips of a fish, for his sharp nose could not pass enough air into him. As always he lay flat on his back with one hand resting on the rise of his belly, his short, slightly bowed legs stretched out with the toes tenting the sheet. Even in sleep he seemed to cling to his sense of propriety, for when the breeze died in a little while his hand gently folded the sheet away from his body and then moved back to its place on his warm belly. When he awakened there would hardly be a crease in the bedding and his reddish hair, trained flat from the part on the left side, would really not need combing.

Chapter Two

THERE had been a time – until a few weeks ago – when he enjoyed emerging from his house in the morning. He would come out onto his high front porch with the quick vigor of a bird, and descending the brick stoop would scan his ten square feet of front lawn for any scraps of paper the night might have blown up. Then, rapidly picking up the rubbish and dropping it into his garbage can at the curb, he would give his house a quick but warm glance and head for the subway. He had a fast, forward-leaning way of walking, like certain dogs which come down a street looking neither right nor left. He was a man who seemed afraid of being seen loitering.

But when he stepped onto his porch this morning the heat struck his fair, childishly puffed cheeks, reminding him of his body and his trouble, and for a moment he felt weakened and afraid. He walked to the top of the stoop, and halted when he heard a crackling under his shoe. Bending way over from the waist he peered at the brick floor of the porch and lifted his shined, round-toed shoe and saw a piece of cellophane. He picked it up between two fingers and went down the stoop and along his little cement walk to the curb, where he opened the garbage can and deposited the cellophane. For a moment he stood smoothing his navy blue summer jacket down over his belly – which was beginning to make a coastline, as he said – and felt perspiration inside his starched collar. Blankly he looked at the house.