Angle Street was a big building which, Sam guessed, had housed railroad-company offices back in the days when Junction City really had been a railway junction point. Now there were just two sets of working tracks, both going east-west. All the others were rusty and overgrown with weeds. Most of the cross-ties were gone, appropriated for fires by the same homeless people Angle Street was here to serve.

Sam arrived at quarter to five. The sun cast a mournful, failing light over the empty fields which took over here at the edge of town. A seemingly endless freight was rumbling by behind the few buildings which stood out here. A breeze had sprung up, and as he stopped his car and got out, he could hear the rusty squeak of the old JUNCTION CITY sign swinging back and forth above the deserted platform where people had once boarded passenger trains for St. Louis and Chicago—even the old Sunnyland Express, which had made its only Iowa stop in Junction City on its way west to the fabulous kingdoms of Las Vegas and Los Angeles.

The homeless shelter had once been white; now it was a paintless gray. The curtains in the windows were clean but tired and limp. Weeds were trying to grow in the cindery yard. Sam thought they might gain a foothold by June, but right now they were making a bad job of it. A rusty barrel had been placed by the splintery steps leading up to the porch. Opposite the Angle Street sign, nailed to another porch support, was this message:

His luck was in. Although Saturday night had almost arrived and the ginmills and beerjoints of Junction City awaited, Dirty Dave was here, and he was sober. He was, in fact, sitting on the porch with two other winos. They were engaged in making posters on large rectangles of white cardboard, and enjoying varying degrees of success. The fellow sitting on the floor at the far end of the porch was holding his right wrist with his left hand in an effort to offset a bad case of the shakes. The one in the middle worked with his tongue peeking from the comer of his mouth, and looked like a very old nursery child trying his level best to draw a tree which would earn him a gold star to show Mommy. Dirty Dave, sitting in a splintered rocking chair near the porch steps, was easily in the best shape, but all three of them looked folded, stapled, and mutilated.

“Hello, Dave,” Sam said, mounting the steps.

Dave looked up, squinted, and then offered a tentative smile. All of his remaining teeth were in front. The smile revealed all five of them.

“Mr. Peebles?”

“Yes,” he said. “How you doing, Dave?”

“Oh, purty fair, I guess. Purty fair.” He looked around. “Say, you guys! Say hello to Mr. Peebles! He’s a lawyer!”

The fellow with the tip of his tongue sticking out looked up, nodded briefly, and went back to his poster. A long runner of snot depended from his left nostril.

“Actually,” Sam said, “real estate’s my game, Dave. Real estate and insur—”

“You got me my Slim Jim?” the man with the shakes asked abruptly. He did not look up at all, but his frown of concentration deepened. Sam could see his poster from where he stood; it was covered with long orange squiggles which vaguely resembled words.

“Pardon?” Sam asked.

“That’s Lukey,” Dave said in a low voice. “He ain’t havin one of his better days, Mr. Peebles.”

“Got me my Slim Jim, got me my Slim Jim, got me my Slim Fuckin Slim Jim?” Lukey chanted without looking up.

“Uh, I’m sorry—” Sam began.

“He ain’t got no Slim Jims!” Dirty Dave yelled. “Shut up and do your poster, Lukey! Sarah wants em by six! She’s comin out special!”

“I’ll get me a fuckin Slim Jim,” Lukey said in a low intense voice. “If I don’t, I guess I’ll eat rat-turds.”

“Don’t mind him, Mr. Peebles,” Dave said. “What’s up?”

“Well, I was just wondering if you might have found a couple of books when you picked up the newspapers last Thursday. I’ve misplaced them, and I thought I’d check. They’re overdue at the Library.”

“You got a quarter?” the man with the tip of his tongue sticking out asked abruptly. “What’s the word? Thunderbird!”

Sam reached automatically into his pocket. Dave reached out and touched his wrist, almost apologetically.

“Don’t give him any money, Mr. Peebles,” he said. “That’s Rudolph. He don’t need no Thunderbird. Him and the Bird don’t agree no more. He just needs a night’s sleep.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam said. “I’m tapped, Rudolph.”

“Yeah, you and everybody else,” Rudolph said. As he went back to his poster he muttered: “What’s the price? Fifty twice.”

“I didn’t see any books,” Dirty Dave said. “I’m sorry. I just got the papers, like usual. Missus V. was there, and she can tell you. I didn’t do nothing wrong.” But his rheumy, unhappy eyes said he did not expect Sam to believe this. Unlike Mary, Dirty Dave Duncan did not live in a world where doom lay just up the road or around the comer; his surrounded him. He lived in it with what little dignity he could muster.

“I believe you.” Sam laid a hand on Dave’s shoulder. “I just dumped your box of papers into one of my bags, like always,” Dave said.

“If I had a thousand Slim Jims, I’d eat them all,” Lukey said abruptly. “I would snark those suckers right down! That’s chow! That’s chow! That’s chow-de-dow!”

“I believe you,” Sam repeated, and patted Dave’s horribly bony shoulder. He found himself wondering, God help him, if Dave had fleas. On the heels of this uncharitable thought came another: he wondered if any of the other Rotarians, those hale and hearty fellows with whom he had made such a hit a week ago, had been down to this end of town lately. He wondered if they even knew about Angle Street. And he wondered if Spencer Michael Free had been thinking about such men as Lukey and Rudolph and Dirty Dave when he wrote that it was the human touch in this world that counted—the touch of your hand and mine. Sam felt a sudden burst of shame at the recollection of his speech, so full of innocent boosterism and approval for the simple pleasures of small-town life.

“That’s good,” Dave said. “Then I can come back next month?”

“Sure. You took the papers to the Recycling Center, right?”

“Uh-huh.” Dirty Dave pointed with a finger which ended in a yellow, ragged nail. “Right over there. But they’re closed.”

Sam nodded. “What are you doing?” he asked.

“Aw, just passin the time,” Dave said, and turned the poster around so Sam could see it.

It showed a picture of a smiling woman holding a platter of fried chicken, and the first thing that struck Sam was that it was good—really good. Wino or not, Dirty Dave had a natural touch. Above the picture, the following was neatly printed:

“I know,” Sam said. He paused, then asked: “Do you go to AA? You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. I know it’s really none of my business.”

“I go,” Dave said, “but it’s hard, Mr. Peebles. I got more white chips than Carter has got liver pills. I’m good for a month, sometimes two, and once I went sober almost a whole year. But it’s hard.” He shook his head. “Some people can’t never get with the program, they say. I must be one of those. But I keep tryin.”

Sam’s eyes were drawn back to the woman with her platter of chicken. The picture was too detailed to be a cartoon or a sketch, but it wasn’t a painting, either. It was clear that Dirty Dave had done it in a hurry, but he had caught a kindness about the eyes and a faint slant of humor, like one last sunbeam at the close of the day, in the mouth. And the oddest thing was that the woman looked familiar to Sam.

“Is that a real person?” he asked Dave.

Dave’s smile widened. He nodded. “That’s Sarah. She’s a great gal, Mr. Peebles. This place would have closed down five years ago except for her. She finds people to give money just when it seems the taxes will be too much or we won’t be able to fix the place up enough to satisfy the building inspectors when they come. She calls the people who give the money angels, but she’s the angel. We named the place for Sarah. Of course, Tommy St. John spelled part of it wrong when he made the sign, but he meant well.” Dirty Dave fell silent for a moment, looking at his poster. Without looking up, he added: “Tommy’s dead now, a course. Died this last winter. His liver busted.”

“Oh,” Sam said, and then he added lamely, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. He’s well out of it.”

“Chow-de-dow!” Lukey exclaimed, getting up. “Chow-de-dow! Ain’t that some fuckin chow-de-dow!” He brought his poster over to Dave. Below the orange squiggles he had drawn a monster woman whose legs ended in sharkfins Sam thought were meant to be shoes. Balanced on one hand was a misshapen plate which appeared to be loaded with blue snakes. Clutched in the other was a cylindrical brown object.

Dave took the poster from Lukey and examined it. “This is good, Lukey.”

Lukey’s lips peeled back in a gleeful smile. He pointed at the brown thing. “Look, Dave! She got her a Slim Fuckin Slim Jim!”

“She sure does. Purty good. Go on inside and turn on the TV, if you want. Star Trek’s on right away. How you doin, Dolph?”

“I draw better when I’m stewed,” Rudolph said, and gave his poster to Dave. On it was a gigantic chicken leg with stick men and women standing around and looking up at it. “It’s the fantasy approach,” Rudolph said to Sam. He spoke with some truculence.

“I like it,” Sam said. He did, actually. Rudolph’s poster reminded him of a New Yorker cartoon, one of the ones he sometimes couldn’t understand because they were so surreal.

“Good.” Rudolph studied him closely. “You sure you ain’t got a quarter?”

“No,” Sam said.

Rudolph nodded. “In a way, that’s good,” he said. “But in another way, it really shits the bed.” He followed Lukey inside, and soon the Star Trek theme drifted out through the open door. William Shatner told the winos and burnouts of Angle Street that their mission was to boldly go where no man had gone before. Sam guessed that several members of this audience were already there.

“Nobody much comes to the dinners but us guys and some of the AA’s from town,” Dave said, “but it gives us something to do. Lukey hardly talks at all anymore, ’less he’s drawing.”

“You’re awfully good,” Sam told him. “You really are, Dave. Why don’t you—” He stopped.

“Why don’t I what, Mr. Peebles?” Dave asked gently. “Why don’t I use my right hand to turn a buck? The same reason I don’t get myself a regular job. The day got late while I was doin other things.”

Sam couldn’t think of a thing to say.

“I had a shot at it, though. Do you know I went to the Lorillard School in Des Moines on full scholarship? The best art school in the Midwest. I flunked out my first semester. Booze. It don’t matter. Do you want to come in and have a cup of coffee, Mr. Peebles? Wait around? You could meet Sarah.”

“No, I better get back. I’ve got an errand to run.”

He did, too.

“All right. Are you sure you’re not mad at me?”

“Not a bit.”

Dave stood up. “I guess I’ll go in awhile, then,” he said. “It was a beautiful day, but it’s gettin nippy now. You have a nice night, Mr. Peebles.”

“Okay,” Sam said, although he doubted that he was going to enjoy himself very much this Saturday evening. But his mother had had another saying: the way to make the best of bad medicine is to swallow it just as fast as you can. And that was what he intended to do.

He walked back down the steps of Angle Street, and Dirty Dave Duncan went on inside.

One approached the Recycling Center through zones of litter—first the yellowing ad supplements which had escaped old copies of the Gazette, then the torn plastic garbage bags, finally an asteroid belt of busted bottles and squashed cans. The shades of the small clapboard building were drawn. The sign hanging in the door simply read CLOSED.

Sam lit a cigarette and started back to his car. He had gone only half a dozen steps when he saw something familiar lying on the ground. He picked it up. It was the bookjacket of Best Loved Poems of the American People. The words PROPERTY OF THE JUNCTION CITY-PUBLIC LIBRARY were stamped across it.

So now he knew for sure. He had set the books on top of the papers in the Johnnie Walker box and then forgotten them. He had put other papers—Tuesday‘s, Wednesday’s, and Thursday’s—on top of the books. Then Dirty Dave had come along late Thursday morning and had dumped the whole shebang into his plastic collection bag. The bag had gone into his shopping-cart, the shopping-cart had come here, and this was all that was left—a bookjacket with a muddy sneaker-print tattooed on it.

Sam let the bookjacket flutter out of his fingers and walked slowly back to his car. He had an errand to run, and it was fitting that he should run it at the dinner hour.

It seemed he had some crow to eat.