Once in a while a vacant lot, occasionally the rusting skeleton of an abandoned car, stripped of anything saleable. Everything sodden, under the downpour, narrow, bitter, and wet. Everything cooking sullenly with the slow fire of decay.

"Why such a big Chinese population?" Susan said.

"I don't know how it started, but they began to arrive here to work the fish plants. And others followed, and it grew like that.

They work hard. A lot of them are illegal, so they don't complain about anything. They're suspicious of labor organizers and safety inspectors, and they take the wage you give them."

"A factory owner's dream," Susan said.

At the waterfront we turned left onto Ocean Street. Here there were no Chinese. Here the fishermen lived. There were more one-story homes, more room between them. But here too there was no sense that the rain was engendering. That it would bring forth fresh life. Here too the rain seemed almost pestilent as it bore down on the cluttered and makeshift homes that crowded against the slick ocean, where the greasy waves swelled against the waterlogged timbers of the fish piers. Almost the only color I had seen since I left the hill was the jewel-red stop lights gleaming through the murk at irregular intervals.

CHAPTER 2

Demetrius Christopholous, the Artistic Director of the Port City Theater Company, was waiting for us, nursing a Manhattan, in the lounge of a Chinese restaurant called Wu's, a block from the theater. Susan introduced us. Christopholous glanced around the lounge, which featured a miniature bridge over a minuscule pond in the middle of the room. Muralled on the back wall was a painting of a volcano.

"The owner is on our board," he said.

"Is that a Chinese volcano painted on the wall?" I said.

Christopholous smiled.

"I think that's Mount Vesuvius," he said.

"This used to be a pizzeria."

"Thrift," I said.

A disinterested waiter brought me a beer and Susan a glass of red wine.

"You're joining us tonight?" Christopholous said.

"Yes," I said.

"Susan tells me you're being followed."

"Yes, of course, right down to business. It's quite distasteful, but that is why you're here, isn't it."

"I'm here because Susan asked me to come."

"Well, it's been a couple of weeks," Christopholous said.

"At first I thought it just hypersensitivity on my part. One reads so much in the papers about these perilous times. But it soon became apparent that a person was stalking me."

"Can you describe him?"

"Always in black, at night, some distance away. He appeared to be medium height, medium build. Face was always shadowed by a hat."

"What kind of hat?"

"Some sort of slouch hat."

"Ever approach the shadow?"

"No. Frankly, I've been afraid to."

"Don't blame you," I said.

"Person threaten you in any way?"

Christopholous shook his head.

"Approach you?" I said.

"No."

"Any harassment? Letters? Phone calls? Dirty tricks?"

"No."

"Any reason you can think of why someone would follow you?

Disgruntled actor? Embittered dramaturge?"

Susan glanced at me. The "dramaturge" was showing off, and she knew it.

"The Artistic Director of a theater company has to make decisions that some people strongly feel are wrong," Christopholous said.

"It is the nature of the work. But I can't imagine that anyone is acting out an artistic disagreement with me. Even if he were, why would he do this?"

"A lot of stalkers get a feeling of power," I said.

Christopholous raised his eyebrows and shrugged.

"Is that all they usually want? That feeling of power? Or do you think I'm in danger?"

"I can't say you're not. I can say that there has been no threat so far, which is good. But there's no way to say what will come.

Have you talked to the cops?"

"No."

"Maybe you should."

"What can they do?"

"Depends on their manpower and their efficiency. They should have a stalker file, for instance. You might recognize a name. They probably could offer you some protection. They might be able to apprehend the guy."

"I'd… I'd rather this were a private matter."

"Why?"

"I… well, I'd like to protect the theater."

"Un huh."

We all were silent. I waited.

"And, ah, I, well I don't have much confidence in our police force."

"DeSpain still Chief?" I said.

"You know him?"

"I ran into him a couple times before," I said.

"Once when he was a state cop, and once about five years ago when I was up here working."

"Yes, he's still the Chief."

It clearly made Christopholous uncomfortable to talk about DeSpain. I let it go.

"Any unresolved romantic complexity in your life?" I said.

Christopholous was glad to talk about something else. He smiled.

"No, most of that, for better or worse, is pretty well behind me."

"No ex-lovers that might want to follow you around?"

Christopholous smiled more broadly.

"No."

"Jealous spouses?"

Christopholous chuckled and looked at Susan.

"He's quite delicate for a man in his profession," Christopholous said.

"He has phrased his questions without prejudging my sexual inclinations."

"Tough but sensitive," Susan said.

"Any jealous spouses?" I said.

"No. I wish there were."

"You owe money?"

"Just car payments. I make them regularly."

"What would you like me to do?" I said.

"Catch the shadow," Christopholous said.

"Okay."

"Do you think you can catch him?" Christopholous said.

"Sure," I said.

"Him or her."

No sexist, I.

CHAPTER 3

The Port City Theater Company was housed in what had once been the meeting hall of a church at the east end of a disgruntled avenue called Ocean Street. Behind it was a parking lot and beyond the parking lot the harbor where the water was iridescent with oil slick, and the loud gulls clustered to harvest the fragrant effluvia of the fish-packing plants. The church now housed some sleazy boutiques and cafes and places to buy theater memorabilia, and the hall, where once there had been bake sales, had been renovated by Cabot into a 350-seat theater. Christopholous left us in front and went around to the stage door.

"We gotta see this?" I said.

"Of course," Susan said.

"I'm on the board. I can't come up here, have a drink with the Artistic Director, and not see the play."

"I can."

"But you love me," Susan said, "and you want to be with me."

"Of course," I said.

"What's the play about?"

"Nobody seems to know."

"What do the actors say it's about?"

"They don't know," Susan said. She was as close to embarrassed as she gets.

"The actors don't know what it's about?"

"No."

"How about the Director?"

"Lou says that a play is not required to be about anything."