One

The bus decelerated, wheezing, before a imposing building and pair of waiting figures. Greta watched the pair carefully as the bus approached. The man, in stained diner smock and navy windbreaker, held a double-folded paper in two fists. His eyes, in a head that drooped forward a little, were trained an inch or two above the top of the paper.

Two or three feet down the bench sat a woman, perhaps younger than the man, but not young. Every part of her (knees, feet, hands, elbows), thought Greta, was carefully contained -- except her eyes. Her eyes wandered over the street, into the sky, onto the man.

Inside the building, Greta gave her name to the manager, a woman in an ill-fitted skirt suit who sat behind an empty desk and flipped through a celebrity gossip magazine.

"Can I leave my bags here for a little while?" Greta asked.

The woman pointed to a corner of the grubby office. "I'll be back soon. I'm just going to L'Royale Theater."

The woman raised her eyebrows and scanned Greta's jeans and jacket. "L'Royale, eh?"

Greta nodded, puzzled. "Actually, could you tell me how to get to the theater?"

The woman pointed to the street beyond the grubby window. "You came in off Rouse. That street there on the side is Polaski. Walk a block down that and you'll hit Main. You can only turn left. The, uh, theater will be on your right. "