He wore a transparent plastic raincoat the color of watery ink. He had thin red hair and a narrow, freckled face, and was always disheveled, as if he had been sleeping in his clothes and had just jumped out of bed. He was putting a match to a cigarette as he came through the door. He saw her and crossed to her table and sat down quickly, crushing his raincoat into a ball and stowing it under his chair. Jimmy did everything in a hurry, as if each moment were a deadline he was afraid he was about to miss. “Well, Pheeb,” he said, “what’s up?” There were sparkles of moisture in his otherwise lifeless hair. The collar of his brown corduroy jacket bore a light snowfall of dandruff, and when he leaned forward she caught a whiff of his tobacco-staled breath. Yet he had the sweetest smile, it was always a surprise, lighting up that pinched, sharp little face. It was one of his amusements to pretend that he was in love with Phoebe, and he would complain theatrically to anyone prepared to listen of her cruelty and hard-heartedness in refusing to entertain his advances. He was a crime reporter on the Evening Mail, though surely there were not enough crimes committed in this sleepy city to keep him as busy as he claimed to be.

She told him about April and how long it was since she had heard from her. “Only a week?” Jimmy said. “She’s probably gone off with some guy. She is slightly notorious, you know.” Jimmy affected an accent from the movies; it had started as a joke at his own expense-”Jimmy Minor, ace reporter, at your service, lady!”- but it had become a habit and now he seemed not to notice how it grated on those around him who had to put up with it.

“If she was going somewhere,” Phoebe said, “she would have let me know, I’m sure she would.”

The waitress came, and Jimmy ordered a glass of ginger beer and a beef sandwich-”Plenty of horse radish, baby, slather it on, I like it hot.” He pronounced it hat. The girl tittered. When she had gone he whistled softly and said, “That’s some wart.”