“Alfonzo. Come. With. Me.”

He did as his friend asked.

“Mitchell?”

“Hum?”

“What’s happening?”

“I told you, not here. At the Cenozoic.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did.”

“Mitchell, what’s happening in City Hall?”

“A little bird told me something big,” Mitchell hummed.

“Is that Fat the Hen? Sounds like not a little bird, but does she know if they’re shutting down my department? The place that pays me money to live on? Are ticks and mold related?” Alfonzo lowered his voice. “Is this some kind of Deep Throat situation? Is Fiona from the Parks Department Fat the Hen? She seems so guileless.”

“There is no hen! A little bird told me is a figure of speech. I know things, but it will take some time to lay it all out.”

“Like a chicken lays eggs?”

“Shut up.”

Alfonzo had to get it out in the open. He felt so guilty. “I think Old Spots is going to fire me because of the printing.”

“What?”

“I think Old Spots will look for mold and find stolen paper.”

“Why do you think that?”

“It just follows. I think I may have implicated you in my paper theft, and now that pig is trying to psych me out by calling me ‘Mr. Camellama.’”

“Oh,” Mitchell sighed. “You poor hysterical creature. I’m the one who should be sorry. The mayor isn’t trying to get you—he doesn’t know you exist—and Old Spots is just a toady. What they’re after are the files I gave you.”

Mitchell pushed the door open. A bell rang, and Mitchell let out a little whistle. They entered The Early Cenozoic.

20.

E.M.U. was playing on the stereo. The song reminded Alfonzo of college. He had a ripple of a memory of Vivi, their meeting. He recalled walking down a stairway into a den. He remembered a ratty orange couch and a stereo blasting. He asked Vivi something stupid and she ended up telling him about a dance essay she was writing on the Eight Efforts: to float, to thrust, to glide, to slash, to dab, to wring, to flick, and to press. These were building blocks of motion. She told him the story of her childhood ship voyage from Lima to New York. They’d smoked catnip, and Mitchell had hummed everything he knew about E.M.U., which was probably too much. He’d always had the ability to retain minutiae about bands and musicians he loved.