Meeting Evil by Thomas Berger

better part of an hour. John regretted extending the offer, but he had done so and was a man of his word.
    “Why, sure,” he answered, concealing his disappointment under a rising tone. “Hillsdale it is! But first I really do have to call my wife.” He turned to Sharon. “I still need to borrow a quarter.”
    Coin in hand, he left the car and went to the telephone niche in the outer wall of the bank. His knee no longer hurt as much as it had earlier.
    Joanie was seething, and he in turn was annoyed that she did not want to hear an explanation. “I know it sounds crazy, but take my word for it. I guarantee I’ll be back before you’re due at Elaine’s: that’s the important thing, isn’t it?”
    But she hung up abruptly. He only hoped that no one who could recognize him had seen him in the company of Sharon. She did not much resemble the kind of people who were his normal clients. Nor did Richie, to be sure.
    When John got back to the car, he asked Richie what time it was.
    “Damn if I know,” Richie said indifferently.
    “My wife’s going to be really mad if I don’t come home soon. She’s got an appointment.” He suppressed the information that where she had to go was the hairdresser’s, because it might sound trivial to someone like Richie, whom he looked down on but nevertheless did not want to give an occasion to sneer.
    “Swing around by your house and pick her up,” Richie said. “I don’t have to be anyplace soon.”
    John said frostily, “That won’t be necessary.” He looked back at Sharon, who managed to look small even when in such a compartment. “You’re wearing a watch.”
    “Huh?”
    “What time is it?”
    She took an extra moment to find her wrist. “Eleven-ten.”
    “God Almighty,” John cried. “No wonder Joanie’s mad. I can’t believe it! I’ve been at this two hours?” He started the car again. Joanie’s appointment was at one. There was just enough time to make the round trip to Hillsdale if nothing happened that was untoward.
    Richie held a container of coffee. John, who had breakfasted lightly almost four hours earlier, found the aroma seductive, but when Richie offered him the bag again, he again refused it: he wanted nothing from this guy.
    “Joanie?” Richie asked now. “That’s your wife’s name? Cute. She about your age? What color hair?” He put the bag between his feet. “Must be nice being married to the right person. How many kids?”
    John simply ignored the questions about his wife, for any answer at all would have compromised him with Richie—though he could not have explained why he felt that way—but decided to mention his kids, for suddenly they seemed a strength. “Two.”
    Richie nodded enthusiastically. “You don’t say? That’s fantastic. You made ‘em, eh, John? You’re all right.”
    Immediately John began to regret having admitted that much. He could finally see a break in the traffic, and he gave his attention to it.
    Richie meanwhile asked, “Boys? Girls?”
    John pulled away from the curb and was rolling cautiously toward a traffic signal that he suspected was on the verge of changing.
    Richie continued. “Do you want some more? But I hope you’re planning these things. We don’t need more kids coming into the world by mistake.”
    As it happened, John agreed with the principle, but it went against his grain to discuss the subject with this man. The traffic light, too, was trying his patience, staying red interminably. He eventually had to come to a full stop.
    “It’s stuck,” Richie said. “Run it.”
    In fact John felt like doing so, he who rarely suffered unduly from impatience. Perhaps some of Richie’s anarchistic tendencies were rubbing off on him. Just as the car came totally to rest, the light turned green. Had he taken Richie’s advice, he would probably have gotten away with it. As it was, he did not put the vehicle in motion again quickly enough to forestall a chorus of horns behind him, led by the