He got exactly two blocks before stopping, his eyes growing wide with shock, his mouth dropping open. They had said to expect this, both Roland and Eddie, but in his heart Callahan hadn’t believed it. He’d thought he would find The Manhattan Restaurant of the Mind perfectly intact on this perfect summer’s day, which was so different from the overcast Calla autumn he’d left. Oh, there might be a sign in the window reading GONE ON VACATION, CLOSED UNTIL AUGUST —something like that—but it would be there. Oh yes.

It wasn’t, though. At least not much of it. The storefront was a burnt-out husk surrounded by yellow tape reading POLICE INVESTIGATION . When he stepped a little closer, he could smell charred lumber, burnt paper, and…very faint…the odor of gasoline.

An elderly shoeshine-boy had set up shop in front of Station Shoes & Boots, nearby. Now he said to Callahan, “Shame, ain’t it? Thank God the place was empty.”

“Aye, say thankya. When did it happen?”

“Middle of the night, when else? You think them goombars is gonna come t’row their Molly Coh’tails in broad daylight? They ain’t geniuses, but they’re smarter than that.”

“Couldn’t it have been faulty wiring? Or maybe spontaneous combustion?”

The elderly shine-boy gave Callahan a cynical look. Oh, please, it said. He cocked a polish-smeared thumb at the smoldering ruin. “You see that yella tape? You think they put yella tape says PERLICE INVESTIGATION around a place that spontaneously combust-you-lated? No way, my friend. No way José. Cal Tower was in hock to the bad boys. Up to his eyebrows. Everybody on the block knew it.” The shine-boy waggled his own eyebrows, which were lush and white and tangled. “I hate to think about his loss. He had some very vallable books in the back, there. Ver-ry vallable.”

Callahan thanked the shine-boy for his insights, then turned and started back down Second Avenue. He kept touching himself furtively, trying to convince himself that this was really happening. He kept taking deep breaths of the city air with its tang of hydrocarbons, and relished every city sound, from the snore of the buses (there were ads for Charlie’s Angels on some of them) to the pounding of the jackhammers and the incessant honking of horns. As he approached Tower of Power Records, he paused for a moment, transfixed by the music pouring from the speakers over the doors. It was an oldie he hadn’t heard in years, one that had been popular way back in his Lowell days. Something about following the Pied Piper.

“Crispian St. Peters,” he murmured. “That was his name. Good God, say Man Jesus, I’m really here. I’m really in New York! ”