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Neal knew he shouldn’t have answered the phone. Sometimes they just ring with that certain rotten jangle that can mean only bad news. He listened to it ring for a full thirty seconds before it stopped, and then he looked at his watch. Exactly thirty seconds later it rang again, and he knew he had to answer it. So he set his book down on the bed and picked up the receiver.

“Hello,” he said sourly.

“Hello, son!” a cheerfully mocking voice answered.

“Dad, it’s been a long time. ”

“Meet me. ” It was an order.

Neal hung up the phone.

“What’s up?” Diane asked.

Neal pulled on his sneakers. “I have to go out. A friend of the family. ”

“You have an exam in the morning,” she protested.

“I won’t be long. ”

“It’s eleven o’clock at night!”

“Gotta go. ”

She was puzzled. One of the few things Neal had ever told her about himself was that he’d never known his father.

Neal pulled on a black nylon windbreaker for the cool May night and hit the streets. Broadway was still busy this time of night.

Whatever it is, he thought, please let it be in town. A quick trip down to the Village to pick up some kid and bring him back to Mama, or maybe a couple of quick sneaky snapshots of somebody’s old lady dining out with a saxophone player.

He and Graham always met at the Burger Joint. This had been Neal’s idea. For a hamburger lover, it was mecca. A narrow little place, jammed in on the first floor of the Hotel Belleclaire, it catered to everyone from junkies who had scraped together a few bucks to movie stars who had scraped together a lot of bucks. Nick made the best burgers in town, if not the civilized world, and it was a terrific place to pick up a fast meal and a tip about a ball game. The Yankees would be in it this summer for sure-the Pennant and Series, too, just for the Bicentennial.

Neal went in and waved at Stavros behind the counter, then took an empty booth in the corner. Sure enough, Graham wasn’t there yet, but Neal was early. He ordered a cheeseburger with Swiss cheese, fries, and an iced coffee. He settled into the Times and waited comfortably for things to happen. In his line of work, waiting well was an acquired talent and a necessity. Neal was a newspaper addict. He read the three major dailies religiously and absorbed the variety of weeklies that New York served up like a heavy dessert. Tonight it was the sports news that interested him, convinced as he was of the Yankees’ destiny.