“I’m sorry,” the boy said. “That’s your mandolin thing, isn’t it? I’m really sorry.” Farrell handed him his knapsack, and he opened the slide doors and started to step down, then paused, looking back. “Well, I thank you very much for the ride, I really appreciated it. You have a good day, okay?”

Farrell shook his head, marveling helplessly. “Do you do this a whole lot? I ask out of some concern.”

“Well, I don’t do it for a living, if that’s what you mean.” Pierce/Harlow might have been a college golfer defending his amateur standing. “It’s more like a hobby, actually. You know, some people do underwater photography. I just get a kick out of it.”

“You don’t know how it’s done,” Farrell said. “You don’t even know what to say. Somebody’s going to kill you, you keep this stuff up.”

Pierce/Harlow shrugged. “I get a kick out of it. The look on their faces when it finally starts to sink in. It’s really addictive, just knowing I’m not what they’re so sure I am. Sort of like Zorro or somebody.” He dropped to the curb, turning to give Farrell a reminiscently affectionate smile, as if they had shared an adventure long ago, in another language. He said, “You ought to try it. You’re practically doing it anyway, right now. Take care, Mr. Farrell.”

He slid the doors carefully shut before he sauntered away toward the clinic. Farrell put Madame Schumann-Heink in gear and eased her into the thickening San Francisco commuter traffic that seemed to be starting far earlier than he remembered. What would you know? Back then, everyone in the world lived on Parnell Street and slept till noon. He decided that whatever Madame Schumann-Heink was dragging would keep until he got to Ben’s house, as would thinking about the events of the last half-hour. His skin felt stiff with dried sweat; his head had begun to thump with each heartbeat. The Volkswagen smelled of feet and blankets and cold Chinese food.