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pulled to the curb to let me out at the north side of Memorial Park, around which the streets define a town square.
    “Looks like I’m not going to be any help with this one,” I said.
    In the past, I’ve had reason to suspect that when a situation involves people especially close to me, about whom I have the most intense personal feelings, my gifts do not serve me as well as they do when there is even a slight degree of emotional detachment. Maybe feelings interfere with psychic function, as also might a migraine headache or drunkenness.
    Danny Jessup was as close to me as a brother could have been. I loved him.
    Assuming that my paranormal talents have a higher source than genetic mutation, perhaps the explanation for uneven function is more profound. This limitation might be for the purpose of preventing the exploitation of these talents toward selfish ends; but more likely, fallibility is meant to keep me humble.
    If humility is the lesson, I have learned it well. More than a few days have dawned in which an awareness of my limitations filled me with a gentle resignation that, till afternoon or even twilight, kept me in bed as effectively as would have shackles and hundred-pound lead weights.
    As I opened the car door, Chief Porter said, “You sure you don’t want me to drive you home?”
    “No, thank you, sir. I’m awake, fully charged, and hungry. I’m going to be the first through the door for breakfast at the Grille.”
    “They don’t open till six.”
    I got out, bent down, looked in at him. “I’ll sit in the park and feed the pigeons for a while.”
    “We don’t have pigeons.”
    “Then I’ll feed the pterodactyls.”
    “What you’re gonna do is sit in the park and think.”
    “No, sir, I promise I won’t.”
    I closed the door. The patrol car pulled away from the curb.
    After watching the chief drive out of sight, I entered the park, sat on a bench, and broke my promise.

CHAPTER 8
    A ROUND THE TOWN SQUARE, CAST-IRON LAMPPOSTS, painted black, were crowned with three globes each.
    At the center of Memorial Park, a handsome bronze statue of three soldiers—dating from World War II—was usually illuminated, but at the moment it stood in darkness. The spotlight had probably been vandalized.
    Recently a small but determined group of citizens had been demanding that the statue be replaced, on the grounds that it was militaristic. They wanted Memorial Park to memorialize a man of peace.
    The suggestions for the subject of the new memorial ranged from Gandhi to Woodrow Wilson, to Yasir Arafat.
    Someone had proposed that a statue of Gandhi should be modeled after Ben Kingsley, who had played the great man in the movie. Then perhaps the actor could be induced to be present at the unveiling.
    This had led Terri Stambaugh, my friend and the owner of the Grille, to suggest that a statue of Gandhi should be modeled after Brad Pitt in the hope that
he
would then attend the ceremony, which would be a big deal by Pico Mundo standards.
    At the same town meeting, Ozzie Boone had offered himself as the subject of the memorial. “Men of my formidable diameter are never sent to war,” he said, “and if everyone were as fat as I am, there could be no armies.”
    Some had taken this as mockery, but others had found merit in the idea.
    Perhaps someday the current statue will be replaced by one of a very fat Gandhi modeled after Johnny Depp, but for the moment, the soldiers remain. In darkness.
    Old jacarandas, drenched with purple flowers come spring, line the main streets downtown, but Memorial Park boasts magnificent phoenix palms; under the fronds of one, I settled on a bench, facing the street. The nearest street lamp was not near, and the tree shaded me from the increasingly ruddy moonlight.
    Although I sat in gloom, Elvis found me. He materialized in the act of sitting beside me.
    He was dressed in an army uniform dating from the late 1950s. I can’t say with any authority whether it was actually a uniform