He had his sections of the Siegfried map folded in his pocket, and he squatted up with his legs crossed like an Indian idol while she lay prone beside him and followed every movement of his indicatory finger. “What’s odd?” “Oh, everything!” She shivered, and went to the fire and poked it. She sat on the edge of the bed overwhelmed, the roses cradled in her arms. Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. “Look here, Ann Veronica,” he began. He seized a tray, squatted on the floor, and imitated the tom-tom. .
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