“Her? Vera? Naw, my old lady’s name’s Irene. What’d you do? Follow me?”

“I knew where you worked. Your boss told me where you live.”

“Hold on.”

Simon stubs his cigarette out and flicks the butt onto the sidewalk. He stands and goes into the building. He comes back with eighteen dollars.

“Where’s your partner in crime?”

“Burt? Over at Little Earth.”

“Don’t give none of this to him. Just head over to First and get on the bus.”

Lincoln turns to go.

“Hey Lincoln. You might as well know. That white bitch is your mother.”

“What? Her?”

“Vera.”

“Her?”

“She’s all right.”

“You gotta be kiddin me.”

“She’s all right.”

“Give me a fuckin break. Why’d you tell me?”

“Thought you might want to know who you was callin bitch.”

“Why’d you have to tell me?” He retreats down the steps with the unfolded bills in his hand, backing away from this new knowledge.

“Lincoln.”

“Her?”

“Lincoln. It don’t matter. You’re here, okay. You’re here. It don’t matter.”

Lincoln laughs.

“Lincoln.”

“This takes the fuckin cake.”

“Lincoln.”

“This takes the goddamn fuckin cake.”

He turns and begins walking up Portland, shaking his head.

“Lincoln.”

But he does not turn. Lost in knowing.

Simon stands with one leg on the next step down, poised to run after him but lacking a reason, knowing Lincoln will not listen.

Simon walks to work. All the time his eyes search the garbage-blackened alleys and porticoed nooks of old buildings for Lincoln, places where those watching would stand, close enough to be ready, but out of the main channel of the downtown human current, eddies where the cops wouldn’t bother to look. He doesn’t see him anywhere. He passes the rug store and walks down to the bus station to see if, by chance, Lincoln has actually decided to leave. He opens the spit-stained double doors and wrinkles his nose at the smell of sweat and diesel exhaust that pours out. He searches the bathrooms and the bus docks but no one is there except for a migrained bus driver leaning on a bollard, luggage resting carelessly on the oil-soaked asphalt. Inside, people wait for their buses like murderers for verdicts, hands clasped, their faces filled with apprehension and resignation.

An Indian walks in and sits next to a blushing priest and Simon starts forward, but wait, the hair is too long, and he is too tall to be Lincoln.

Simon leaves and hurries back to the rug store.

“You’re late,” says Ashish from behind a crumbling croissant, as Simon strides to the back room to deposit his coat.

“Hope we didn’t lose any business in that half-hour,” he says over his shoulder.

“Getting smart, too.”

Simon ignores him and hangs his jacket on the office chair as Ashish combs his mustache for crumbs.