My car was still where I’d left it, apparently intact. In New York that often ranks as a happy surprise. When I first saw them, I was amused at the signs, in English and Spanish, hand-lettered and professionally printed, proclaiming that there was “no radio” in car after car parked on city streets. I no longer find anything funny about them, but my car is so old and so cheap, I can’t quite believe anyone would think there was something of value inside. I was about to unlock the door when I changed my mind, crossed the street to where the apartment houses formed an impregnable wall, almost like the face of a cliff, across from the park, and went back to Mr. Greenspan’s address. I announced myself and was buzzed in. A hefty, middle-aged woman in an apron opened the door for me. A smell of food cooking in an unseen kitchen gave the apartment a warm, homey atmosphere. “You’re too early for the sun,” the little man in the chair said as I entered the living room. “I had another question.”
