“Your call,” Carter replied. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it. Are you sure there’s nothing you want?”

I thought about Avrum’s room and the thievery of old, desperate people who were afraid of a candlestick box.

“I have a mahogany box that he kept some things in,” I said. “I’d like that.”

“Keep it,” Carter advised easily. “All right, business over?”

“As far as I’m concerned. You know where to find me if you need me.”

Carter stood. “Let’s go,” he said.

“Where are we going?”

“Bobo, you’re too damned curious. Always have been.” He touched a button his intercom. “Libby, we’re going out for a hour or so. Can you hold down the fort?”

A voice sweetly answered, “Sure. Be careful.”

Carter smiled at me and winked. “She loves my ass, Bobo,” he whispered.

We drove to Woodstock, which had been a small artists’ colony in 1955, but had become a mecca for young people in search of a subculture that existed more in their appearance and in their fantasies than in their longing. For years, tourists had flocked to Woodstock to see them and to pick among the good and bad of their art and their trinkets. There was always talk of the rock festival that became legend.

“It’s amazing, Bobo,” Carter said as he drove slowly through the town. “Used to be a great place, didn’t it? Now it’s as gaudy as a New Orleans whore. Damned rock concert changed it. What a ball-buster that was.”

“You went?” I asked with surprise. “I didn’t know that. You’ve never said a word about it.”

He shrugged and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel of his car. “Never been exactly proud of it,” he confessed.

“Why not?”

Carter mugged smugly. “I’m a lot more conventional than you think.”

“Sure, you are,” I replied. “I’ve always thought that was your most remarkable quality, Carter. In fact, I thought that part of your nature, alone, would get you to Washington.”

Carter laughed easily and slowed the car for a girl wearing cutoff jeans and a slip-top to cross the street. The girl’s hair was braided in a pigtail that dangled to the small of her back. Her breasts bounced freely under the slip-top.

“Damn,” Carter muttered. “You see the tits on that, Bobo? Did anybody have tits like that when we were young?”

“What are we doing here?” I asked.

“I want to show you something,” he answered, “but not here. I just thought you’d like a drive-through for old times’ sake.”

“There’s nothing old-time here,” I said. “At least not much that I recognize.”

“You forgot about us, Bobo,” Carter replied. “We’re here.” He laughed again.