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consciousness in the bicameral…”
    “Look into my eyes, asshole.” He came close enough for the man to do exactly that. “Do I look like a philosopher, to you? Do I look patient?”
    “Up,” said the Prophet, backing against the truck.
    “Up what?”
    “A hunted man always goes up. It’s a primal instinct.” He stretched out a bony arm to point at the fire escapes on the other side of the alley, and Wilkie backed off a half a step.
    “Which one?” said Wilkie.
    “On the back of the locksmith shop.”
    “That’s more like it.” He turned on his heel and strode away, his tent-like coat billowing out behind him like the wake of a garbage scow.
    I decided the show was over, so I opened the door and stepped out. “Nice to see you, Wide,” I said.
    “Hey, Herman.” He spun around and smiled. “I thought you looked like you didn’t like your blind date much, up there in Lefty’s, so I stowed away in the limo. Was that okay?”
    “Much more than okay.”
    “Glad you think so, because that was a really horseshit little space. I don’t know why they can’t make a vehicle with a bigger trunk.”
    “Like a Euclid truck?”
    “Just like that.” He came back over to the truck and gave me a bear hug that fractured a rib or two. “You all right, man?”
    “I was, until you did that. Where’s my two new friends?”
    “The big guy is having a little nap in the trunk. I took his gun and the other stuff out of his pockets, just so he wouldn’t be too uncomfortable.”
    “Very considerate. What about his partner?”
    “He took off, after I made him change the tire. Never saw a man so scared of a little bit of work.”
    “You think that was smart?”
    “Making him change the tire?”
    “Letting him go.”
    “Well, I thought if I bopped him one, he might just get chickenshit later on, and finger me for assault. He looked like that kind of wuss. And he isn’t going anywhere very far, right away. Seems to have lost all his clothes, poor bastard. Also his money and ID.”
    “Shoes, too?”
    “Hey, am I a thorough professional, or what?”
    I laughed out loud at the image of Stroud padding down the sidewalk in his bare feet and skivvies.
    The Prophet seemed to like it, too, and he added, “The wolves shall devour each other, and the loin shall lie down with the limb.”
    “I got my twenty bucks’ worth of bullshit already, “ I said.
    “Me, too,” said Wilkie. “Go preach to a stone, or something.” Turning to me, he said, “So, what’s the story, Herman? I could see you needed some cavalry back there, but that wasn’t your usual kind of action, to say the least.”
    “Tell me about it,” I said. I filled him in on the high points of the day’s events. The Prophet also leaned into the conversation, as if he were an old conspirator. Wilkie gave him a dirty look now and then, but otherwise left him alone. I decided it couldn’t hurt to have a possibly crazy person listening in on a definitely crazy story, and I left him alone, too.
    “What the hell is going on?” said Wilkie, when I had finished.
    “Well put,” I said. “I haven’t a clue.”
    “What’s in the trunk?” said the Proph.
    “An unhappy camper,” said Wilkie. “The other stuff, I put in the back seat.”
    “And it is…?” I said.
    “Interesting,” said Wilkie. He led us over to the car and opened the back door.
    “The little guy…”
    “You mean Stroud,” I said.
    “Stroud, my ass. The guy had a briefcase full of phony ID, some of it pretty good, and his own little printing press and art supplies for making some more.” He pointed to a pile of papers and cards in an open case. “He’s got more damn names than a downtown law firm. Look at this: James Stroud, Strom Jameson, Tom Wade, Wade Thomas—you see a bit of a pattern here?—James Cox…”
    “James Cox? Are you sure?”
    “Sure, I’m sure. That’s one of his better sets, even has a real-looking driver’s license. Is that important?”
    “Son of a