“How do you know she’ll be there?”

She smiled that smile. “Because you have an appointment with her then.”

Jack laughed. “You were that sure?”

“Of course. And I’ll be there with Vicky to introduce you.”

He frowned. “Do you think that’s wise?”

“Introducing you?”

“No. Taking Vicky down there.”

“Are you kidding? She loves helping with those kids.”

“Yeah, but they’ve got… AIDS.”

“No, they’ve got HIV. There’s a big difference. And you can’t catch HIV by holding a baby in your arms. How many times have I told you that?”

“Lots. But I still…”

“When you see, you’ll understand. And you’ll see at four o’clock, right?”

“Right.”

They kissed, but Jack felt a chill. His list of things that scared him was a short one, but the HIV virus was top on the list.

4.

Jack took a walk over to Amsterdam Avenue.

After slowing temporarily in the late ‘80s and early ‘90s, gentrification was back in full swing on the Upper West Side. New brownstone renovations, new condos, and of course, new eateries. In a few hours the streets and the host of new restaurants, trattorias, and bistros would be crowded with yuppies and dinks out for their Friday night fling to initiate the weekend’s respite from buying and selling.

As individuals, Jack didn’t have anything against them. Sure they could be empty-headed when it came to one-upsmanship in the conspicuous consumption arena and the endless panting after trends, and as a group they tended to suck the color out of the neighborhoods they invaded. But they weren’t evil. At least most of them weren’t.

Jack checked his watch. Getting near three. Abe would be ready for a mid-afternoon snack just about now. He stopped in at Nick’s Nook, a mom-and-pop grocery—a vanishing breed in these parts—and picked up a little treat.

Next stop was the Isher Sports Shop. The iron grate was pulled back, exposing the blurry windows. Beyond them, an array of faded cardboard placards, dusty footballs, tennis balls, racquets, basketball hoops, backboards, Rollerblades, and other good-time sundries basked in the sunny display space.

Inside was not much better organized. Bikes hanging from the ceiling, weight benches over here, SCUBA gear over there, narrow aisles winding past sagging shelves. ESPN meets Twister.

As Jack entered, Abe Grossman was just finishing with a customer—or rather, a customer was finishing with him.

Abe’s age was on the far side of fifty and his weight was in calling distance of an eighth of a ton, which wouldn’t have been bad if he were on the right side of five-eight. He was dressed in his uniform—black pants and a white half-sleeved shirt. A frown marred his usually jovial round face, a face made all the rounder by the relentless retreat of his gray hair toward the top of his head.

“Hooks?” Abe was saying. “Why should you want hooks? Can you imagine how that must hurt a fish when it bites into it? And those barbs. Oy! You’ve got to rip them out! Such damage to the tender mouth tissues. Stick a fish hook in your own tongue sometime and see how you like it.”