BARTHOLOMEW WAS LURKING in his van in front of GEE when I got back. He started leaning on the horn as soon as he spotted me climbing up out of the T. All around the square, defense contractors flocked to their metallized windows to see if their BMWs were being violated, then drifted back, unable to localize the sound. I sauntered on purpose, pretended to ignore him, climbed the stairs to get my bike. I should have known that if I wanted recreation, my roommate would be thinking along the same lines. That is why, despite many kinds of incompatibility, we lived together: our minds ran in parallel ruts.

"Hey, you!" Tricia shouted, as I unlocked my bike. "That ain't yours."

"I'm fuckin' out of here," I said.

"Jim called," she said coyly, so I stepped just barely inside the door." What?"

"They're ready and waiting."

"He found a beachhead?"

"Yeah." Reading from a note, now: "Dutch Marshes State Park, ten miles north of Blue Kills. Take Garden State Parkway south to the Route 88 exit ... well, this goes on for a while. Here you go."

"Don't want it."

"Sangamon," she said in her flirtatious whine, which had been known to put men in the mind of taking their clothes off. "I spent ten minutes taking this down. And I don't like taking dictation."

"I'll never understand why people give out directions, or ask for them. That's what fucking road maps are for."

Outside, Bart blew a few licks on his horn.

"Find it on the map, you can always get to it. Try to follow someone's half-assed directions, and once you lose the trail, you're sunk. I've got maps of that fucking state an inch thick."

"Okay." Tricia was getting into some serious pouting; I bit the inside of my cheek, hard.

"Just tell me what time."

"He didn't say. You know, tomorrow afternoon sometime. Just follow the barbecue smoke."