Clouds of high school students roamed along the sidewalks, across the lawn of the fire station, gathering at the windows of the drive-in on the far side of the street. One pretty little girl in a red sweater held Schilling's attention as she stood sipping from a pasteboard cup, her eyes large and vacant, her black hair fluttering. He watched until she noticed him and ducked defensively away.

"Are those all high school children?" he asked Bill. "Some of them look older."

"They high school students," the Negro assured him with civic authority. "It just three o'clock."

"The sun," Schilling said, making a small joke. "You have sun most of the year ... it ripens everything faster."

"Yes, crops here all year round. Apricots, walnuts, pears, rice. It nice here."

"Is it? You like it?"

"Very much." The Negro nodded. "During the war I live down in Los Angeles. I work in a airplane factory. I ride to work on the bus." He grimaced. "Shee-oot."

"And now you're in business for yourself."

"I got tired. I live a lot of different places and then I come here. All during the war I save for the car wash. It make me feel good. Living here make me feel good. can sort of rest."

"You're accepted here?"

"There a colored section. But that good enough; that about all you can expect. At least nobody ever say I can't come and live. You know."

"I know," Schilling said, deep in thought.

"So it better here."

"Yes," Schilling agreed. "It is. Much better."

Across the street the girl had finished her soft drink; crumpling the cup, she dropped it into the gutter and then strolled off with friends. Joseph Schilling was looking after her when Max emerged from the men's room, blinking in the sunlight and buttoning his trousers.