Yashim began to assemble his ingredients. Constantinedes weighed out two oka of potatoes and tumbled them into Yashim’s basket, replacing the scoop on the scales with a flourish.

“Four piastres, twenty-twenty-twenty-eighty-five the potatoes-five-oh-five-and anything else, efendi?”

“What’s happened to George?”

“Beans today-yesterday’s prices!”

“They say you’re going to take over his pitch.”

“Five-oh-five, efendi.”

“An oka of zucchinis, please.”

The man picked the zucchinis into his scoop.

“I heard he had an accident. How did it happen?”

“The zucchinis.” As Constantinedes tilted the scoop over Yashim’s basket, Yashim gripped it by the edge and gently raised it level again.

“I’m a friend of his. If he’s had an accident, I may be able to help.”

Constantinedes pursed his lips thoughtfully.

“I can ask the kadi,” Yashim said, and let go of the scoop. The kadi was the official who regulated the market. The zucchinis rained down into the basket. “Keep the change.”

The man hesitated, then scooped up the two coins without looking at them and dropped them into the canvas pouch at his waist.

“Five minutes,” he said quietly.

4

Yashim stirred his coffee and waited for the grounds to settle. Constantinedes tilted the cup against his lips. “We all got a choice. We don’t want aggravation, see?”

“Yes. Is George all right?”

“Maybe. I don’t ask.”

“But you’ll take over his pitch.”

“Listen. This was between them and George. Keep us out of it. I’m talking to you because you was his friend.”

“Who are they, then?”

The man pushed his coffee away and stood up.

“A little piece of everything, that’s all.” He bent down to pick something off the ground and Yashim heard him whisper: “The Hetira. I’d leave it, efendi.”