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said.
    "Looking for somebody?"
    "Axel. Axel Moffett."
    From the bathroom in the hall there came then, as though summoned by Pierce's request, another man, barefoot, plucking at the front of his sweatpants. By their looks the three on the couch referred Pierce to him.
    "Yeah?"
    He had a gold cross in the V of his shirt, a broken nose like a thug in the funny papers, and a watchcap on his grizzled head.
    "Where's Axel?” Pierce asked.
    "Who wants to know?"
    "I'm his son."
    "You're kidding."
    "No."
    "Well, for Christ's sake.” He scratched his head, rubbing the rough cap back and forth with a forefinger, and regarded Pierce's bags. “You come to stay?"
    "No actually."
    "There's room."
    "No. I'm only here one night. I'm flying to Europe tomorrow."
    "No shit.” The man seemed unimpressed, maybe unconvinced, and went on regarding Pierce with what seemed a hostile, reptilian scrutiny, unblinking. “Axel know that?"
    "I came to tell him."
    Two of the three on the couch now laughed, as though they found this comically inadequate, which it was. The older man looked their way, and they stopped.
    "So anyway you came,” he said to Pierce. “That's something.” He came close to Pierce and put out a large and knob-knuckled hand, unsmiling still. “Pierce."
    "Yes.” The grip was iron.
    "Good."
    "Where is he now, can you tell me?” Pierce asked. “Do you know?"
    "I got some ideas. Some of the guys started the celebration early.” Knowing laughter from the boys on the couch. “He's with them. The usual places."
    "Celebration."
    "Don't worry. It'll cycle back here. Or we can go hunt ‘em up. You won't miss a thing."
    For a time the two looked at each other as, with gradual certainty, Pierce came to understand.
    "His birthday,” he said.
    "Sixty-three,” said the watchcap. And of course it was, noble, benevolent Aquarius. He knew that. And now he knew the man before him too. This was the Chief, of whom Axel had told him: the Navy man (retired) who managed a team of young working men, who earned extra money and got away from their families on weekends by doing reclamation in Brooklyn buildings. Axel was accountant and factotum. Pierce didn't know they had moved in, apparently to stay.
    "Europe,” the Chief said, whose unwavering gaze was unsettling, and intended no doubt to be so. Pierce wondered what they had done to Axel. Or taken from him. There were so many disasters Axel could let himself in for, his misapprehensions and his grandeurs. “Whatcha want over there?"
    "It's sort of a research trip,” Pierce said. “Historical research.” He turned away then, as though this answer were sufficient, to study the battered apartment, the building materials stacked against the wall, the rolled rug in the corner. A battered birdcage lay in pieces, the bird flown or dead; gone.
    "Yeah, we're working on the place,” said the Chief. “The whole building. We got the tenants out and we're upgrading. What we're doing for Axel. I'll show you around."
    There was a pounding of feet on the stair, past the door, on upward to the third floor, leaving a mephitic trail of cheerful obscenities as it went up. The three men on Axel's couch arose as one to follow, calling out as they left. A. A.
    "You know he really shouldn't drink a lot,” Pierce said.
    "So you'll be staying tonight,” the Chief said. “He'll be glad. You know he always expects you. See, your bed's made."
    It was. The old chenille bedspread it had always worn, a new slough in its middle, though.
    "Sixty-three,” said the Chief, observing the bed with Pierce as though there were someone in it. “So you would have been born 1942 or so?"
    "Um yes."
    "I was in the Pacific then."
    "Aha."
    "Axel missed the big one. Never mind.” He scratched his head again, a habit. “You want coffee? A beer?"
    "No neither,” Pierce said. “Actually I may not be able to stay. I thought I'd get out toward the airport, you know, get a motel room out there, so I'd be close in the morning. My