“My children bless you,” Buchanan says, folding the bills away. “This will buy a world of pencils.”

“Hey, whatever happened to Babe?” Rabbit asks. He finds, with his money in Buchanan’s pocket, he has new ease; he has bought rights of inquiry.

Buchanan is caught off guard. “She’s still around. She’s still doing her thing as the young folks say.”

“I wondered, you know, if you’d broken off connections.”

Because he is short of money. Buchanan studies Rabbit’s face, to make certain he knows what he is implying. Pimp. He sees he does, and his mustache broadens. “You want to get into that nice Babe, is that it? Tired of white meat, want a drumstick? Harry, what would your Daddy say?”

“I’m just asking how she was. I liked the way she played.”

“She sure took a shine to you, I know. Come up to Jimbo’s some time, we’ll work something out.”

“She said my knuckles were bad.” The bell rasps. Rabbit tries to gauge how soon the next touch will be made, how deep this man is into him; Buchanan sees this and playfully, jubilantly slaps the palm of the hand Rabbit had extended, thinking of his knuckles. The slap tingles. Skin.

Buchanan says, “I like you, man,” and walks away. A plum-pudding-colored roll of fat trembles at the back of his neck. Poor diet, starch. Chitlins, grits.

fascinating hour with the VAT reporter, chatting informally concerning Brewer’s easliest days as a trading post with er’s earliest days as a trading post with the Indian tribes along the Running Horse River.

He showed us a pint of log huts

He showed us a print of log huts etched when the primitive settlement bore the name of Greenwich, after Greenwich, England, home of the famed observatory.

Also in Dr. Kleist’s collection were many fascinating photos of Weiser Street when it held a few rude shops and inns. The most famous of these inns was the Goose and Feathers, where George Washington and his retinue tarried one night on their way west to suppress the Whisky Rebellion in 1720. suppress the Whisky Rebellion in 1799.

The first iron mine in the vicinity was the well-known Oriole Furnace, seven miles south of the city. Dr. Kleist owns a collection of original slag and spoke enthusiastically about the methods whereby these early ironmakers produced a sufficiently powerful draft in

Pajasek comes up behind him. “Angstrom. Telephone.” Pajasek is a small tired bald man whose bristling eyebrows increase the look of pressure about his head, as if his forehead is being pressed over his eyes, forming long horizontal folds. “You might tell the party after this you have a home number.”

“Sorry, Ed. It’s probably my crazy wife.”

“Could you get her to be crazy on your private time?”

Crossing from his machine to the relative quiet of the frosted-glass walls is like ascending through supportive water to the sudden vacuum of air. Instantly, he begins to struggle. “Janice, for Christ’s sake, I told you not to call me here. Call me at home.”