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about that glint.”
    Bat Masterson and Harold both looked momentarily startled, then relaxed, realizing Sal was joking. Fedderman wandered in from his interview in another unit, saw the smiles and joined in.
    The detectives thanked Masterson for his cooperation, then left the building and walked toward their unmarked car, finished after a long day.
    As they passed where John Lennon had been shot, two young girls were standing and gawking. One kept snapping photos with her cell phone. The other stared at the sidewalk approximately where Lennon had fallen and seemed about to cry.
    â€œWhere the Russian was shot,” Sal said dryly.
    Harold said, “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
    A ragged figure stepped out from the narrow dark space between two buildings and limped toward them. Fedderman moved his unbuttoned white shirt cuff and rested the heel of his hand on his gun in its belt holster.
    The man was one of the homeless, in a stained and ripped ancient gray sport coat and incredibly wrinkled baggy jeans. He had a lean face with a long, oft-broken nose, and a deep scar on the side of his jaw. He might have been forty or ninety. The street did that to people. Once they gave up, the street was in charge of time.
    He stopped a yard in front of Sal and Harold, so that they had to stop.
    â€œI seen what happened,” he said in a voice almost as gravel pan as Sal’s. “All of it. Whole thing started with the popcorn.”
    The two detectives looked at each other.
    â€œWhat’s your name?” Harold asked.
    Sal rolled his eyes. He was tired and his feet hurt. He didn’t feel like dealing with a nutcase.
    â€œI just go by Spud.”
    Harold made a show of writing the name in his leather-covered notepad as if it were vitally important. “You understand we’re with the police?”
    â€œI knew he was a cop,” Spud said, pointing at Sal. “I wasn’t so sure about you.” Spud used the back of his hand to wipe his nose. “You look like the kind that never played sports as a kid.”
    â€œLooks can fool you,” Harold said, obviously hurt by Spud’s analysis.
    â€œHe was a star quarterback at Notre Dame,” Sal lied.
    Spud looked dubiously at Harold. “That true?”
    â€œI don’t give away the plays,” Harold said. He hitched his thumbs in his belt so his holstered gun was visible. With his bushy gray mustache and hipshot, slender frame, he was magically changed into an old West gunslinger. “Now what’s all this about popcorn?” he asked.
    Spud seemed unimpressed. “The woman was sitting on a bench, and for some reason the pigeons didn’t like the popcorn she was trying to feed them.”
    â€œMaybe it was stale,” Harold said. “Some pigeons are particular.”
    Spud rubbed his bristly chin. It made a lot of noise. “Now, that’s how I see it, too. You and me, we think alike.”
    â€œWho was the woman feeding popcorn to the pigeons?” Sal asked.
    â€œDon’t know her name. Never seen her before. Then this guy came along, and they started talking.”
    â€œThe girl and the new arrival?”
    â€œThe girl and the pigeons,” Sal said. Harold could be excruciating.
    â€œDescribe him.”
    â€œKinda little guy, wearing faded designer jeans, a pullover shirt with the collar turned up in back. Had on a Mets baseball cap, had one ear inside it, another outside it. That ear stuck straight out and was kinda funny looking.”
    â€œFunny looking how?”
    â€œPointed, it was.” He looked thoughtful. “I was drunk once and seen a leprechaun had ears like that.”
    â€œRight ear? Left ear?”
    â€œRight one, I’d say. Maybe both of ’em. Hard to know, the way he had his cap tilted.”
    â€œWhere did the popcorn come from?” Harold asked.
    â€œHell, I don’t know. Woman had it but the pigeons wouldn’t touch the popcorn till she stood up