Pike folded his arms. He looked over Golod’s shoulder, toward Shreve. Which was closing in ten minutes, so the staff could see the movie stars. Now he looked at the gems spread out on the velvet pad on the counter. “Where’s our deal?”

“It’s going well.” Golod reached for his sandwich. “Go see your diamond. You have to ask Mr. Lewis, in back. I can eat.”

Pike didn’t move. Golod made a small noise, a clearing of his throat, and fished into his pocket.

“Here,” he said, taking his ten one-hundred-dollar bills. “Do you have an envelope, perhaps?”

“Andy?” Pike called to his daughter, who bolted from her stool as if her father had delivered her an electric shock.

She said, “Yes?”

“Envelope, please?”

While Pike shrugged on his jacket, Golod opened the envelope, dropped the ten one-hundred-dollar bills inside, and then tapped them against his lap, lost in thought.

“Yes?”

“Do you have a sponge? I’m not fond of licking envelopes.”

“Andy?”

This time, she was ready. Her father stepped toward the window, looking anxiously through the crowds to Shreve’s window, while Golod slowly used the sponge to dampen the adhesive of the envelope. He said, “There we go.” With a flourish, he sealed the envelope and handed it to Pike. “Hold on to this, Pike, and come back, and I will finish my sandwich and perhaps talk to your lovely daughter about school.”

“I’m not in school anymore,” she said.

“And a thousand schoolboys wail.” He smiled.

Pike took the envelope (it was suitably thick and full, since Golod had cut the enclosed pieces of newspaper perfectly) and left his shop. The bell tinkled on his way out.

Andy watched her father. The traffic was apparently still heavy enough to demand that the patrolman assist at the intersection, even now, as the parade was breaking up. The rabbi took several bites of his sandwich. He smiled at her, and dabbed at the corners of his mouth.

“So, Miss Pike, if you aren’t in school,” he said, upending the pad, and sending the ruby, the sapphire, and the pearls into a sack, “what holds your interest?”

He had dark-brown eyes, and his beard, though exotic to Andy, struck her as probably soft rather than scratchy. “I’ve been going to dances,” she said. The rabbi tightened the silk drawstring around the sack, and pocketed it, continuing to regard her as if awaiting more conversation.

“My wife loves to dance,” he said. “I’ve been meaning to learn more of the new ones. What is that fast one called? The Turkey Trot?” He took another bite of sandwich.

“Well, that’s not new, really,” she said. Her brain was having trouble measuring and comparing several facts: he was being entirely reasonable and friendly; he had just pocketed a small pile of gems; he was still enjoying his egg salad. “Excuse me? I—do you—”