“But he wasn’t. Christ, look out there, Roger. The streets are filthy and the nice old houses . . . Lensky’s, Shirmer’s, the del Pinos’ . . . they’re rooming houses with little hot plates in the bedrooms and one toilet for every floor. And the people are different. Oh, I know, we’re supposed to love each other anyway. But they’re different in ways that task me. I hate them, they hate me. My son is eight, and full of life, but he won’t go out to play. He’s scared, Roger. It’s still light at seven, but he sits in the kitchen like an old man and stares out of the window. Five times this year they stole his lunch money. Five times! The last time, one of the little bastards kicked him in the balls. An eight-­year-­old kid. What should I do? Nu, tell me. I could teach him to fight like them, I suppose. But is the rest of the world like Flatbush and Bed-­Stuy? Is it? Do I want an eight-­year-­old kid around who kicks other kids in the balls, or pounds them in the face or stabs them? Do I?”

Hawkins couldn’t answer.

“No, Roger. I’m gonna figure that my son can get by without learning to kill. I’m gonna figure that there is civilization out there. And that’s where I’m going.”

“Where is it,” Hawkins asked at last, “this civilization?”

“Riverdale,” Pinchik answered. They laughed so hard that old Yoshe, the waiter, told them to shut up because they were disturbing the other customers.

He took Pinchik’s new address and phone number and they promised each other they’d get together at least once a month.