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thought of it, I might have seen him before in the neighborhood. “Do you live around here?”
    â€œNo, on the East Side, but I’ve got friends over here. Why are those old guys in such an uproar?”
    â€œSomebody stole their cold case,” I said. “Full of food.”
    He said, “Who, King Kong?”
    I laughed, and we hung around and talked a little, pointing out to each other the cop who kept picking his nose and the one with the ketchup on his shirt, that kind of thing. He said what about some coffee or soda or whatever, and I said fine, and we ended up in a coffee shop on Broadway where I finally found out what he was after.
    His name was Joel Wechsler. I liked his sort of cranky hawk looks and his bright scarf and his nervous, long-fingered hands that kept torturing the rim of his wax-coated paper Coke cup all the time we talked.
    He asked about Paavo.
    â€œHas he been playing there long, your friend the fiddler?” he said.
    â€œNo,” I said, getting cautious. Paavo was one heck of a big secret, after all, him and Sorcery Hall and the kraken, and who knew how much this kid had managed to overhear? I began to wish Paavo hadn’t gone off and left me with this situation. I began to mentally limber up my I-have-to-go-home-now speech.
    â€œI didn’t think I’d seen him there before,” he said. “Most of these guys have fixed beats, you know? A kind of informal territory. Maybe he’s just started trying it out there, though I don’t think anybody could make much of a living playing on weekdays in Central Park.”
    â€œHe can,” I said, knowing nothing at all about what I was talking about. “He’s good.”
    Joel hunched over the Coke cup, peeling the wax out of the rolled rim. “Well, he sounds all right, even on that beat-up old fiddle. But if he was really good he’d be playing in an orchestra, wouldn’t he? Or in a chamber group, or he’d even be an international soloist. Maybe he just had a good day today, who knows?”
    â€œListen,” I said, getting up, “I’ve got to go home now.”
    He scowled up at me. “Is he a friend of your family’s or something?”
    â€œI only met him today,” I said, and I headed for the door. I was feeling kind of funny, too, sort of annoyed that this boy really didn’t want to talk to me at all. He just wanted to pump me about Paavo.
    He dropped some money on the table and came after me. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to talk to strangers?” he said, following me out onto the street.
    â€œThat’s right,” I said, “and you’re a stranger, so I guess I better not talk to you.”
    â€œHey, I’m sorry if I said the wrong thing,” he said, keeping up, which wasn’t hard considering that he was a foot taller than I was. “But you should be careful in this town.”
    â€œI know that,” I said. “I was born here.”
    â€œMe, too,” he said. He swung along next to me with his hands in his pockets, staring at the sidewalk. “I always wanted to live in the country, but my father . . .”
    â€œYour father what?”
    â€œHe needs to be here for his work.”
    Funny having your dad around, and having to live where his work was. I looked at Joel curiously. He didn’t look very cheerful.
    When we stopped at my building, Joel said, “You live here?”
    â€œYes,” I said, standing there feeling half-impatient to get away from him and half-hoping he would stay and talk some more (but not about Paavo). I wouldn’t have minded if some of the kids in the building should happen to see me out here talking to this interesting, though not particularly sunny-natured, stranger. He was really very nice-looking, if only he would smile.
    â€œI used to know a very fine pianist who lived here,” he said.
    I was surprised. “You mean Mr.