trick said.

"He's one of the reasons we're in this whistle stop," Amber said.
"Willow heard he was here."

"And Joan Baez and Van Morrison," Willow said.

Patrick snorted. "Where's Beethoven?"

"He's watching, maybe," Willow said.

"My man," Patrick said. "He sure rattled his cage." Willow flushed.

"Van Morrison rattles my cage," Amber said, and Patrick forgot about
Beethoven.

"So, what do you do?" he asked her.

"I go to Stanford. We both do."

"I went to Florida State for a while. What are you studying?"

"Pre-med, I guess. My father's a doc."

"I'm reading a lot of science," Patrick said. "Just finishing Darwin."

"Yeah, Darwin," Amber said. "I was in the Galapagos Islands once."

"What! What were they like?"

"Kind of rocky. Foggy in the mornings when I was there. Nothing to do."

Patrick was impressed. "Darwin was good. He kept track. He thought
about what he was seeing . . . those finch."

"Yeah," Amber said. She looked around the room. "The usual suspects,"
she said to Willow. "Long-tailed carpenters," she added for Patrick. It
had been a full day. Things were happening too fast; Patrick wanted to
slow down.

"Look," he said, "nice to meet you. I'll see you around. I've got a
job--start tomorrow."

"Bye, Patrick," Amber said. Willow lifted one hand.

"Amber!" Patrick said to himself, walking back to his room. Frieda had
gone to bed with him a couple of times during his last summer in
Germany. He'd gotten lucky once at a party in Tallahassee. That was it.
No one like Amber. His eyes opened wider as he remembered her. He put
his hand on her shoulder, imagining the warm solid body under her white
blouse. His mind spun out, and he cleared his throat. He shook his
head, got control of himself, and walked faster.

A man playing a blues harp passed him on the other side of Tinker
Street. The blues pulsed up into the evening sky, mournful and
elaborate, a peacock tail of sound. Feelings stirred for which Patrick
had no words. He pumped one fist in the air like a brother and turned
aside to the rooming house.

2

He likes you, as usual," Willow said. "And of course you don't care.
You are such a bitch, sometimes."

"I am not. I can't help it if he likes me." Amber made a tiny
swaggering move with her breasts. "Anyway, he likes you just as much."

"Well, why doesn't he look at me?"

"If you'd wear something besides jeans and work shirts . . ." Amber's
pants and short skirts clu