The man pulled into traffic and away.

What was that all about? Lost his nerve, maybe. Dammit.

I paced another five minutes before, at last, a car slid to the curb on my side of the street, a Chevy sedan about fifteen years past its prime. It had, I noticed, Arkansas plates.

I walked to the curb and bent slightly from the waist, looking in through the rolled-down window. The driver who looked back was white, with thick, tawny hair that fell over the top of his squarish black-rim eyeglasses. He was thin in build, save for the beginnings of softness at his middle, and his large hands, on the wheel, were freckled from sun exposure.

Disheartened, I glanced toward the backseat. A half-folded map was trying to accordion out across the top of a duffel bag, and a fishing rod was propped diagonally from the floor on one side to the rear-window shelf on the other, on which rested a well-worn Houston Astros cap. I knew it.

It was hard to imagine how this out-of-towner had gotten so lost he’d washed up on one of Minneapolis ’s most vice-prone boulevards, but he was here now, and I’d give him the directions he was pulling over for. Well, Lieutenant, I didn’t actually make any vice arrests, but I did help a rube find the Days Inn.

The driver rolled down the passenger-side window, his eyes on mine, seemingly in anticipation of saying something, but then he didn’t speak. The beat of silence stretched out between us, with expectation on both sides, before he finally said, “Well, get in, sugar. Don’t wait for me to ask you.”

If I live to be a hundred, I’ll never have men figured out.

“Why don’t you pull around the corner a minute,” I suggested, recovering from my misconception, “and we can talk.” Going anywhere with a would-be trick is dangerous, and strictly forbidden.

The sedan trundled around the corner to a small parking lot, and I followed. The driver cut the engine, and I slid into the passenger seat.