"Lurch," said Feldman. "Lay off." He had a revolver in his hand, and suddenly I could not swallow the spit in my mouth, or move, or think; the abrupt black fact of a gun always acts on me as a kind of evil jacklight, transfixes me. At once, the giant freed Cleveland, or freed himself of Cleveland. He unbent his body, and his slick, processed ringlets nearly grazed the low ceiling of the room. He came to stand beside Feldman and draped his vast arm across his partner's distant shoulders. They smiled at each other across a foot and a half of bad air. Feldman lowered the gun slightly. The old man had not moved; his chin was wet.

" Cleveland, " Lurch said, his voice deep and beautiful as a radio man's, "what is your problem, baby?" He wasn't even winded. Cleveland, on the other hand, was a mess; he could not see, his hands bled, his shirt was torn, he gasped for breath; he didn't say anything, but he smiled at Lurch. It was a strange smile. It was knowing.

"Oh, Lurch, here's someone you've been wanting to meet," said Feldman. "This is a Bechstein."

"Wow," said Lurch. He held out a hand the size of a dictionary and showed me his expensive teeth. "I guess Cleveland 's been showing you the other end of the family horse?"

I hate to say it, but I was incapable of the usual bubbly little comeback; I had my eyes on the bright black revolver.

"Feldman, Lurch, don't do this," said Cleveland, streaking his pant legs with the bloody palms of his hands. "He's an old guy. I got juice from the old lady an hour ago."

Amid all that, I admired Cleveland 's slang. Juice. I made an immediate mental note of it.

"How much did you take?" said Feldman, and now he had put the gun somewhere; his hands were empty. "Seventy-five fifty? That's not enough."

"We aren't supposed to depart until Mr. Czarnic here has remunerated a certain person to the sum of three hundred and fifty dollars and thirty cents, cash. More or less. Cleveland. Or else we show his wrinkly old butt some impressive feats of strength."

"Unless," said Feldman. He turned to me.

"Unless what?" said Cleveland.

"Unless what do you think of all this, O Son of Joe the Egg?" said Lurch.

"What do you mean? What difference does it make what I think of it?" I looked from one to the other of their faces, looked at the old man, who had stretched himself out now and was trying to slide his legs over the edge of the bed. He held one hand gingerly to his hangover. "This isn't any of my business."

"Aren't you your daddy's little boy?"

"My daddy doesn't live in Pittsburgh. My daddy lives in Washington, D.C.," I said. "We talk on the telephone once a week."

"Oh, but, Dennis, that's just the next best thing," said Feldman. "You can be there. Your daddy's right downtown at the Duquesne, Dennis. Room six twenty-four, if I'm not mistaken."

Jesus.

"So?" I said.

"Six thirty-four," said Lurch. He walked over to the old man's dresser. Its top was covered with nickels and pennies, a clip-on bow tie, a wallet, a bottle of Aqua Velva, a photo of the old lady when she wasn't old. He swept his huge fist across the dresser, and it all went onto the floor. The glass on the picture frame broke with a gritty sound. I looked at Cleveland, who seemed to be trying to stare into my eyes, although without his eyeglasses he was unable to do more than squint intently.

" Cleveland, what is this?" I said. "Is this a test?"

Lurch unhooked an old felt homburg from the doorknob of the closet and walked over to the old man. He bent far down and pulled the hat onto the man's head, and kept pulling, until the hat came unblocked, the felt stretched and took on the shape of the man's skull, and his eyes disappeared under the crumpling brim. Lurch pulled, the man cried out and grabbed at his tremendous forearms, the felt stretched, a small tear opened.

"Stop!" I said.

Lurch stopped. He lifted the hat, delicately dented in its torn crown, and hung it from the doorknob. The old man lashed out at Lurch and hit him feebly on the thigh.

"Let's go," said Feldman.

"After you, Mr. Bechstein," said Lurch.

We went out. I turned my eyes from the sickening look of hatred and thanksgiving in the eyes of the old man-the look, that is to say, of respect.

They drove us down to the foot of the hill, Cleveland behind Lurch, me with a great view of the smelly expanse of Feldman's back; as usual, things were proceeding too quickly, and also as usual, I was hesitant to acknowledge the implications of these things; so instead I shouted through the sweaty wind to Feldman, whom, despite myself, and despite my anger at Cleveland, and despite the lingering fear of guns and brutality, with which I was still trembling, I rather liked.

He said that he and Lurch had been members of rival motorcycle clubs-Feldman of the Pittsburgh chapter of the Outlaws, and Lurch of a black gang called the Down Rockers-who had met in the thick of a race riot, crowbars in their hands, bitter curses on their lips, and had for some reason begun to laugh. After that they were inseparable. They'd quit their gangs to work as a team, and had been hired as muscle by Frankie Breezy, the same man who had hired Cleveland, and the man whose "franchise"-it certainly didn't belong to Cleveland-we were just now leaving.

We were almost to the bottom of the hill. I could see Cleveland 's parked motorcycle and smell the cloying sugary stink of the algae roasting along the riverbank.

"Feldman. Tell me. This whole thing was a setup, wasn't it?"

"Sure."

"Why did he do it?"

"Hey, he's your friend, Dennis. And you know," he said, in a softer voice, easing up on the throttle, "you ought to take better care of him."

We pulled up behind the other Harley, I got off the bike, and we shook. Then he and Lurch roared away across the shimmering blacktop. It was quiet for a long time.

"Well," Cleveland said finally. "So your father's in town. That's interesting."

"You make me so angry, Cleveland, fuck. What was that? What was the point of all that?"

"The point? The point was those guys would have done your nails and made you a cheese omelet if you'd asked them to. Your father's a wise guy, Bechstein, he's big. I told you. And by extension, see, you're big too. You partake of the bigness of your father. What is there to be ashamed of? The point was-"

"If you think now I'm going to let you meet my father-"

"I don't need you to make the introductions. Dennis. I can just pick up the red courtesy phone in the lobby." He lit a cigarette and shook out the match. "Look, Art, I guess this is sort of insane. "

I was overcome with a feeling of great, wary relief, the way one is when one grasps at a straw. "It is insane, Cleveland. Yes. It is. Let's not even discuss it."

"Of course you don't have to come along. I can drop you off at the bus if you want. Or you could just wait around, kill some time in Kaufmann's or something, and then I'll take you home."

"Oh."

"But I would like you to come with, you know, it would make everything so much simpler. I mean, what is the big deal? I'm your friend, am I not? You don't introduce your friends to your father? I take it he's met Phlox?"

"Yes, he has."

"Well? I just want to meet him, that's all. Just shake his fabled iron hand."

"No," I said. "I won't. I just won't. No, you are not my friend, Cleveland. You've played around with me too much. Forget it."

"Fine. I'll have to call for an appointment."

"You really would go without me."

I turned from him and walked down to the riverside and stood in weeds and rusty cans. I was hot, overcome by a feeling of brute sleepiness, and I was two hours late for my foredoomed rendezvous with Phlox. I saw that I'd been mistaken when I thought of myself as a Wall, because a wall stands between, and holds apart, two places, two worlds, whereas, if anything, I was nothing but a portal, ever widening, along a single obscure corridor that ran all the way from my mother and father to Cleveland, Arthur, and Phlox, from the beautiful Sunday morning on which my mother had abandoned me, to the unimaginable August that now, for the first time, began to loom. And a wall says no; a portal doesn't say anything.