Stealing something is relatively easy; getting out with it is something else again. A thief is basically confronted with two choices: bluff or run. He needs to know himself and his gifts, his strengths and his weaknesses. A successful thief must possess an unusual amount of self-knowledge. Neal had some information, readily available from the swift observation that is part and parcel to a poor city kid. He knew that he was in an Irish bar with two more or less sober micks, that he was eleven years old, and that there was no way in hell that he was going to bluff these two guys. He also knew that there was no way on God’s good earth that either of these middle-aged guzzlers could ever catch him in a flat-out race. Baseball might be a spectator sport; theft is strictly participatory. He analyzed this data in the space of about a second and a half, and headed full speed for the door.

Graham hadn’t felt his wallet being lifted, but he sure felt it was gone. Joe Graham never had much money, so he tended to know where it was and where it wasn’t, and even a Roger Maris shot over the left-field fence couldn’t mask the fact that his money wasn’t in its right and proper place in his pocket. He turned around, to see the back of a little kid running out the door.

Graham didn’t pause to comment. Those who take the time to say something like, “That little bastard just took my wallet!” are acknowledging a fait accompli. He shot out the door after the kid, intent on the recovery of his property and the punishment of the perpetrator.

Neal took a hard right out of the door and headed up Amsterdam, then jagged a left on Eighty-first Street.