Straight lines are sharp and cold. They hurt to look at, and they’re all over this city. “I’m sorry the window is missing; they’re putting a new one in on Tuesday,” somebody explains. I close my eyes, but the lines are still there. Someone is whimpering like a dog.

“What’s your address?”

“Why?”

Patiently; “Because this is a taxi.”

I give it.

The cab parks by a warehouse that’s lit up like an airport. The trucks against it are the baby airplanes. “Here you go. What you want is in the box on the seat. You’d better do it right now.” I grope around. “I can help you with that.” Car doors slam. Then, “Okay, you have to do this part yourself.”

The hurtful lights start pouring out candy. “Oh.”

“Pretty good, eh? Okay, let’s get outa here.”

We drive to my apartment. What a lovely night. But as soon as I’m home I’ve got to count the money. Something is terribly wrong.

On my kitchen table sit $1,328, counted twice. That’s about half of a typical night’s take. Vincenzo, what have you done?

Or was it me?