He and Meyerson were idle and bored with one another until mid-afternoon. From 3:30 until almost 8:30 they had six pick-ups, four of them long and difficult hauls, then at 8:35 they were sent out to pick up Mrs. Thomas Catlett, a case of expected childbirth, 31 Simmons Court, Charlestown. But Meyerson turned off the Expressway and wended through streets that hadn’t been widened since they were declared broad enough for Paul Revere’s horse. Ultimately he pulled into a No Parking zone in front of Shapiro’s Book Store on Essex Street.

“Where are you going?” Spurgeon asked warily.

“I’m hungry. I’ll pick up a sandwich and a drink at the delicatessen, you’ll drive while I eat. Okay?”

“Better make it fast.”

“It’s all right, relax. Want me to bring you something? A corn beef?”

“No, thanks.”

“Pastrami? They steam the meat.”

“Maish, I don’t want to waste time.”

“We got to eat.”

Spurgeon surrendered, handing over a dollar from his wallet. “Swiss on white. Coffee, regular.”

He sat in the front seat of the ambulance and studied the books in the windows of Shapiro’s as the seconds turned into minutes and Maish had not reappeared. In a little while he got out of the ambulance and walked to the corner and peered through the plate glass window of the Essex Delicatessen. Framed by a giant ring of salami in the window, his torso hidden behind a pyramid of knockwurst, Meyerson stood in line, talking earnestly to two taxi drivers.

Spurgeon knocked at the window, ignored the hundred-and-twenty-odd eyes that at once were turned upon him, and pointed to his watch.

Maish shrugged and pointed at the counter.

Lord, he hadn’t been waited on yet.

He turned and walked the other way, past the book store, to the end of the block. Beyond lay Chinatown, a flashing neon jungle of palm trees and dragons.

He walked back. For a while he leaned against the side of the ambulance.

Finally he could stand it no longer. He went to the Essex and entered.

“Take a check,” the man at the entrance said.

“I’m not staying.”

“So on the way out, you give it back.”

Maish was seated at a corner table with the cab drivers, the plate before him empty except for a few meat crumbs. His bottle still contained an inch of beer.

“Get the hell out into that ambulance,” Spurgeon said.

Maish looked at the taxi drivers and lifted his eyes. “New man,” he said.

In the ambulance he handed Spurgeon a brown paper bag and twenty cents change. “I figured I better gobble it inside,” he said. “This way I can drive. I know Charlestown. I figured you might get us lost.”

“We’d better make tracks to pick up that maternity case. That’s what I figure.”

“After we get her there she’ll take a day and a half to deliver. I guarantee.”