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to recommend it. It’s a shabby, down-at-the-heels kind of place, with ugly, poorly constructed buildings, nary a tree in sight, and mounds of uncollected garbage littering the sidewalks. A glum burg, perhaps, but not the out-and-out hellhole Brick was expecting.
    His first order of business is to fill his stomach, but restaurants seem to be scarce in Wellington, and he prowls around for some time before spotting a small diner on a side street off one of the main avenues. It’s almost three o’clock, long past lunch hour, and the place is empty when he walks in. To his left is a counter with six vacant stools in front of it; to his right, running along the opposite wall, are four narrow booths, also vacant. Brick decides to sit at the counter. A few seconds after he settles onto one of the stools, a young woman emerges from the kitchen and slaps down a menu in front of him. She’s in her mid- to late twenties, a thin, pale blonde with a weary look in her eyes and the hint of a smile on her lips.
    What’s good today? Brick asks, not bothering to open the menu.
    More like, what do we have today, the waitress replies.
    Oh? Well, what are the choices?
    Tuna salad, chicken salad, and eggs. The tuna’s from yesterday, the chicken’s from two days ago, and the eggs came in this morning. We’ll cook them any way you like. Fried, scrambled, poached. Hard, medium, soft. Whatever, however.
    Any bacon or sausage? Any toast or potatoes?
    The waitress rolls her eyes in mock disbelief. Dream on, honey, she says. Eggs are eggs. Not eggs with something else. Just eggs.
    All right, Brick says, feeling disappointed but nevertheless trying to keep up a good front, let’s go for the eggs.
    How do you want them?
    Let’s see. . . . How do I want them? Scrambled.
    How many?
    Three. No, make that four.
    Four? That’ll cost you twenty bucks, you know. The waitress narrows her eyes, and she looks at Brick as if seeing him for the first time. Shaking her head, she adds: What are you doing in a dump like this with twenty dollars in your pocket?
    Because I want eggs, Brick answers. Four scrambled eggs, served to me by . . .
    Molly, the waitress says, giving him a smile. Molly Wald.
    . . . by Molly Wald. Any objections to that?
    None that I can think of.
    So Brick orders his four scrambled eggs, struggling to maintain a light, bantering tone with the skinny, not unfriendly Molly Wald, but underneath it all he’s calculating that with prices like these—eggs going at five dollars a pop in a no-account greasy spoon—the money Tobak gave him that morning isn’t going to last very long. As Molly turns around and calls out the order into the kitchen behind her, Brick wonders if he should start questioning her about the war or play it closer to the vest and keep his mouth shut. Still undecided, he asks for a cup of coffee.
    Sorry, no can do, Molly says, we’re all out. Hot tea. I can give you some hot tea if you like.
    Okay, Brick says. A pot of tea. After a moment’s hesitation, he plucks up his courage and asks: Just out of curiosity, how much is it?
    Five bucks.
    Five bucks? It seems that everything in here costs five bucks.
    Clearly thrown by his comment, Molly leans forward, plants her arms on the counter, and shakes her head. You’re kind of dumb, aren’t you?
    Probably, Brick says.
    We stopped using singles and coins six months ago. Where have you been, pal? Are you a foreigner or something?
    I don’t know. I’m from New York. Does that make me a foreigner or not?
    New York City?
    Queens.
    Molly lets out a sharp little laugh, which seems to convey both contempt and pity for her know-nothing customer. That’s rich, she says, really rich. A guy from New York who can’t tell his ass from his elbow.
    I . . . uh . . . , Brick stammers, I’ve been sick. Out of commission. You know, in a hospital, and I haven’t kept up with what’s been going on.
    Well, for your information, Mr. Stupid, Molly says, we’re in a war, and New