Neal knew he shouldn’t have answered the phone. Sometimes they just ring with that certain rotten jangle that can mean only bad news. He listened to it ring for a full thirty seconds before it stopped, and then he looked at his watch. Exactly thirty seconds later it rang again, and he knew he had to answer it. So he set his book down on the bed and picked up the receiver.

“Hello,” he said sourly.

“Hello, son!” a cheerfully mocking voice answered.

“Dad, it’s been a long time.”

“Meet me.” It was an order.

Neal hung up the phone.

“What’s up?” Diane asked.

Neal pulled on his sneakers. “I have to go out. A friend of the family.”

“You have an exam in the morning,” she protested.

“I won’t be long.”

“It’s eleven o’clock at night!”

“Gotta go.”

She was puzzled. One of the few things Neal had ever told her about himself was that he’d never known his father.

Neal pulled on a black nylon windbreaker for the cool May night and hit the streets. Broadway was still busy this time of night. It was one reason he loved living on the Upper West Side. He was a New Yorker, born and bred, and for all of his twenty-three years had never lived anywhere but on the Upper West Side. He bought a Times at the newsstand on Seventy-ninth in case Graham was late, as he often was. He hadn’t seen or heard from Graham in eight months and he wondered what was so goddamn urgent that he had to meet him right away.

Whatever it is, he thought, please let it be in town. A quick trip down to the Village to pick up some kid and bring him back to Mama, or maybe a couple of quick sneaky snapshots of somebody’s old lady dining out with a saxophone player.

He and Graham always met at the Burger Joint.