Found in the Street by Patricia Highsmith

curtains, and wonder why people might be up so early—jobs, sickness, insomnia? A jogger was up and out already, running toward Ralph on the other side of Bedford, wearing a blue track suit with a white stripe down the pants, sneakers. On closer look, Ralph saw that the runner was Sutherland, John Sutherland, whose wallet he had returned.
    Ralph repressed an impulse to hail him with a “Morning, Mr. Sutherland!” John Sutherland was frowning a little, keeping his eyes straight ahead. Now that was nice to see, a healthy young man exercising before most of the city was up, keeping his muscles firm, lungs clear. John Sutherland’s fair hair looked darker than Ralph remembered it, but there was no doubt the man was Sutherland. Ralph turned to watch the blue figure disappear on springy, silent feet around the corner into Morton, going west. Sutherland didn’t run every morning, Ralph supposed, otherwise he’d have noticed him before. Ralph had been on his present schedule for two weeks now.
    Ralph walked into Grove Street in the direction of Bleecker. Was Sutherland’s wife still asleep? Probably. He knew what she looked like from the photographs in the wallet, but did not recall ever having seen her in the neighborhood.
    The grocery store on Bleecker was just stirring, doors open, Johnny in an apron tugging out wooden stands on which his wares would be displayed in a few minutes. Ralph went in. God walked in a circle on his leash, sniffing the aromas of mortadella, liverwurst, salami and cheese.
    â€œMorning, Mr. Linderman!’’ said Johnny, coming in. “You’re the first customer. Gettin’ to be a habit.”
    Ralph smiled a little, pleased, and stood taller. “Morning to you, Johnny. How’s the liverwurst today?”
    â€œSame as ever. Not sufferin’, sellin’ fine.”
    Ralph bought some, also some salami and cole slaw, and took a couple of cans of cat food off a shelf for God. Cats were fussier than dogs, so catfood was of better quality than dogfood, Ralph reasoned. God had still some liver and rumpsteak at home. Butter too, Ralph needed. Johnny totaled it all up on his calculator. He was a rather nice boy, Johnny, though Ralph in general didn’t trust Italians, because they were Catholics, and because the Mafia was still mainly composed of Italians. Ralph remembered when he had hated Italians, as he had hated and still hated and mistrusted the blacks, as they called themselves. “Coons” Ralph called them to himself. Negroes certainly, with a capital n, but no, they preferred to be called blacks, a depressing word and color. Many hard-working Italians had made their way up in America, but he could never forget the Mafia, that family business, rich and tough, the epitome of evil, murderers and blackmailers, caterers to vice. The Jews had not changed, in Ralph’s opinion, and by and large he didn’t like them with their ingrown cliques, their money which they used to buy people, but the men who took their money were even worse, of course. Ralph paid, eight dollars and seventy-three cents.
    â€œAnd how’s God?” Johnny asked, leaning over the wooden counter to peer at the dog. “Howdy, God ol’ pal!” Johnny laughed.
    A pimple over Johnny’s upper lip seemed to spread as if to bursting point. The down was turning to darker hair there. Johnny was perhaps seventeen, having quit highschool, but at least he was working for his parents, who were probably still asleep, Ralph thought, and well they deserved it, as they’d been minding the store until nearly midnight.
    â€œGod’s fine, thanks,” Ralph replied, taking up the brown paper bag. “See you soon, Johnny.”
    â€œBye, sir. Have a nice day, God!” Johnny said, still grinning.
    Ralph Linderman had a lovely day. At noon, the newsstand man at Sheridan Square had saved his Times for him, and he changed five books at Leroy Street, renewing