I mean the kids the wives bring. It should be sad, seeing the kids there, but it isnt,they have ribbons in their hair and lots of shine on their shoes, youd think there wasgoing to be ice cream; and sometimes thats what its like in the visitors room, aparty. Anyway its not like the movies: you know, grim whisperings through a grille.

There isnt any grille, just a counter between you and them, and the kids can standon it to be hugged; all you have to do to kiss somebody is lean across. What I likemost, theyre so happy to see each other, theyve saved up so much to talk about, itisnt possible to be dull, they keep laughing and holding hands. Its differentafterwards," she said. "I see them on the train. They sit so quiet watching the rivergo by." She stretched a strand of hair to the corner of her mouth and nibbled itthoughtfully. "Im keeping you awake. Go to sleep."

"Please. Im interested."

"I know you are. Thats why I want you to go to sleep. Because if I keep on, Illtell you about Sally. Im not sure that would be quite cricket." She chewed her hairsilently. "They never told me not to tell anyone. In so many words. And it is funny.

Maybe you could put it in a story with different names and whatnot. Listen, Fred,"

she said, reaching for another apple, "youve got to cross your heart and kiss yourelbow -- "

Perhaps contortionists can kiss their elbow; she had to accept an approximation.

"Well," she said, with a mouthful of apple, "you may have read about him in thepapers. His name is Sally Tomato, and I speak Yiddish better than he speaks English;but hes a darling old man, terribly pious. Hｗww.9９lib•ｎｅted look like a monk if it werent for thegold teeth; he says he prays for me every night. Of course he was never my lover;as far as that goes, I never knew him until he was already in jail. But I adore himnow, after all Ive been going to see him every Thursday for seven months, and Ithink Id go even if he didnt pay me. This ones mushy," she said, and aimed therest of the apple out the window. "By the way, I did know Sally by sight. He used tocome to Joe Bells bar, the one around the corner: never talked to anybody, juststand there, like the kind of man who lives in hotel rooms. But its funny toremember back and realize how closely he must have been watching me, becauseright after they sent him up (Joe Bell showed me his picture in the paper. Blackhand.

Mafia. All that mumbo jumbo: but they gave him five years) along came thistelegram from a lawyer. It said to contact him immediately for information to myadvantage."

"You thought somebody had left you a million?"

"Not at all. I figureder fifty. But then he told me his clientwas Sally Tomato. He said dear old Sally had long admired me à la distance, sowouldnt it be a good deed if I went to visit him once a week. Well, I couldnt: it wastoo romantic."

"I dont know. It doesnt sound right."

She smiled. "You think Im lying?"

"For one thing, they cant simply let anyone visit a prisoner."

"Oh, they dont. In fact they make quite a boring fuss. Im supposed to be hisniece."

"And its as simple as that? For an hours conversation he gives you a hundreddollars?"

"He doesnt, the lawyer does. Mr. OShaughnessy mails it to me in cash as soon asI leave the weather report."

"I think you could get into a lot of trouble," I said, and switched off a lamp; therewas no need of it now, morning was in the room and pigeons were gargling on thefire escape.

"How?" she said seriously.

"There must be something in the law books about false identity. After all, yourenot his niece. And what about this weather report?"