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been hired from something called a “house of public accommodation.” Finally the main officer set a glass of champagne on the head of the nicest French girl and said, “All the women in France belong to us!”
    â€œAny pictures?” Bruce asked.
    Amos ignored the question. “So then, after this insult, the girl gets her composure and says, ‘
I?
I am not a woman. I am only a strumpet, and that is all that Prussians want.’”
    Bruce looked at him blankly. “So?”
    â€œIsn’t that creepy? That she would have to say that about herself?”
    Bruce stared at him for a while. “Maybe you’re reading too much into it.”
    Amos kept thinking about it.
    â€œI like that
strumpet
word, though,” Bruce said. “Kind of sounds like a dessert for grownups.” Besides his photographic memory of sports trivia, Bruce Crookshank had one other highly prized talent. He could imitate almost anyone’s voice of either gender and any age. Now he threw his voice into the husky register of a male middle-aged New Yorker. “I’d like coffee, brandy, and a French strumpet, please.”
    Amos rolled his eyes. “Anyhow, the Prussian officer goes ballistic and slaps the woman, and, presto, she stabs him in the neck with a table knife.”
    â€œNow we’re talking,” Bruce said. “Read that part. Make it dramatic.”
    Upstairs the phone rang, and they could hear Amos’s big sister crossing the dining room to get it.
    Amos found his place. “‘Something that the officer was going to say was cut short in his throat, and he sat there with his mouth half-open and a terrible look in his eyes.’”
    When Amos looked up from the book, Bruce was slumped on the floor acting the part of the dead man.
    â€œIf you’re dead, Crook, my prayers are answered.”
    A few seconds later, the door at the head of the basement stairs opened and Amos’s sister, Liz, poked her head in and said, “That was your brother, Crooky-poo. He says the Judge is on the prowl, and if you’re not home in fifteen minutes, your little dinger’s in the wringer. Or words to that effect.” She slammed the door before a rebuttal could be composed. The Judge was Bruce’s father.
    Bruce looked at Amos. “Guess your folks aren’t home for her to talk like that.”
    â€œThey’re off at the doctor’s,” Amos said.
    Bruce turned and yelled up through the floorboards. “Gives me goose bumps, Elizabeth, when you talk dirty like that!”
    Amos tossed the book on the floor. “Hey, Crook, did I mention sighting the Elusive One walking on Banner Ave. today?”
    Bruce wheeled around. “You sighted Anne Barrineau?”
    Amos nodded. “The one and only.”
    â€œSpecifics, please.”
    Amos smiled and stretched. Bruce, along with half the guys at Melville, spent a lot of idle moments fantasizing about Anne Barrineau. “Okay, let’s see,” Amos said. “Walking alone. Headed due west. Approximately three miles per hour.”
    Bruce took this in slowly. “What was she wearing?”
    â€œA sweater, tights, long coat, and, let’s see, two matching shoes. Also, I imagine, underwear.”
    â€œYeah,” Bruce said, “I imagine, too.”
    Amos grinned. “Yeah, I imagine you do.”
    Amos stood, went over to the window, and stared out into the dusk. It was a view he liked, the window sunken into a light well at yard level so it was like you were lying on your stomach seeing things. He’d been staring out for a while before he realized that a girl was standing by the gate, very still and quiet, just staring up at the house. It was Clara Wilson. Amos instinctively stepped back. “Turn off the lights,” he said in a tight whisper to Bruce.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThe lights. I don’t want her to see us.”
    The lights went off, and Amos edged back