Mr. Calloway was on the bench. The Seven end, under the clock, with his cane between his knees and his hat on the seat beside him. Booker was standing by the lockers twenty feet away, reading a Sporting News, looking like a man who had been ordered to stand twenty feet away and was not happy about it. When he saw Cal come out of the plywood passage he lowered the paper and raised his eyebrows, and then he went back to reading, very loudly.
Cal sat down on the bench, a few feet from the old man.
Mr. Calloway turned his head. "Booker," he said, "is someone sitting next to me?"
"Yes, sir."
"Is it a reasonably tall young man with a green canvas bag with a broken buckle?"
"Yes, sir, it is."
Mr. Calloway faced forward again. His hands tightened and loosened on the cane. "Hello, Calloway."
"Hi."
"Did you tell her?"
"Yeah."
"And?"
Cal looked at the floor. At the green squares, and the black ones. "She said we're not calling you. She said you'd think she sent me. To get money."
Mr. Calloway was quiet for a long moment. "Did she," he said. Then: "And what did you think?"
"I didn't think that."