He drew closer to the knife and stared at it.

Evil had soaked into its wood and honed its metal. It was a fearsome thing, possessed of its own wicked lusts. He had sensed that on the bus. He knew it was true, he could remember the loathsome touch of its nastiness against his bare mind. But now he stooped and picked it up by its thong without a shudder.

Like a photograph in the hands of a blind man, its secrets were safe from him. Best give it to others less blind than he.

The alley dumpster yielded all he needed. He tore free a section of brown paper sack and wrapped the knife securely, folding in the ends of the paper to make a package. With a broken bit of crayon, he wrote POLICE as firmly as his shaking hands could manage. Composing himself, he ventured out upon the sidewalk once more. He dropped the package into the first mailbox he came to. There. It was gone, on its way to tattle on the killer, if he had left more prosaic traces of himself upon it. Wizard walked quickly on.

The sidewalks and streets were busier now, with the cafes and restaurants in the throes of the breakfast rush. He should have felt confident and brash; this was the best time of day to cadge a meal. But that other emptiness inside him had engulfed his hunger and made it trivial. Coffee, he tried to lure himself.

There was always coffee to think of; his shaking hands would feel steadier wrapped around a steaming mug. Waves of giddiness assailed him. He touched his own face and throat surreptitiously, trying to remember if he had taken the fever pills today. The thought swirled away from him, and he was annoyed to find himself patting at his face. What had he been needing?

Coffee.

At the door of the next cafe, he composed himself, running his hands over his wind-tousled hair and tucking in his shirt a little tighter. He pushed the door open and strolled in. As he stood in line, he scanned tables hopefully, looking for someone with food on a plate and showing signs of leaving. Luckily it was crowded enough that people were already sharing tables.

No one would fuss about a stranger sitting down. He fingered the coins in his pocket and studied the menu printed high on the wall.

“You.” He felt a hand on his arm and someone eased him out of his place in line. Wizard looked up at the man in trepidation. He didn’t know him. He was big and stem and determined.

“Sir?” Wizard managed with cold courtesy.

‘Try one of the missions on Second. Or the Bread of Life on Main. They do a coffee and donut thing there at noon.“

Wizard found he was being walked to the door. He knew his mouth was open, but he couldn’t get words out. He tried to pull the coins from his pocket, in a childish show of cash, but the man had too firm a grip on his arm. The grip tightened when he thought Wizard was trying to struggle. “Look. Don’t make a scene. I can’t have your kind in here, or I lose my regular trade. Here’s some change. Go get yourself some wine or whatever. But don’t come back here, and don’t try to panhandle my customers. Next time there won’t be a handout, just a cop. You’d better believe me.”

The man gave him a firm pat on the back that propelled him out the door. Wizard found himself back on the morning streets with a handful of pennies and three nickels, but no coffee. Worse, no confidence. His hands shook worse than ever as he stuffed the telltale coins into his pockets.

Two cafes later, he was still coffeeless. In one a hostess had refused to seat him. In the other, the manager had come from behind the till and suggested they have a little chat outside.

He’d given Wizard another quarter. He was carrying more money now than he ever had before, and he still couldn’t get a cup of coffee.

He dragged himself along the street. He felt colder and emptier than a lack of coffee could account for. Giddiness came and went, washing over him in surges. He hoped he wasn’t coming down with something; what if last night’s fish had been spoiled? His body had begun a headache to protest caffeine withdrawal. He ignored it and walked, his hands pushed deep into his pockets, his fist gripping the money there. Money. He had withdrawn from the major economic system of this country a long time ago. He didn’t need their official federal confetti, or their Social Security, or their welfare, or their lousy Veteran’s Administration. Hell, that screwed-up Vets Ad was strictly a place for old men to get their prostate glands fixed or their ingrown toenails dug out. Go to them with a real problem and they shit on you. They were just a part of the whole shitty system. Well, they’d had all they were going to get out of this boy. Six years of his life shot to hell, not to mention. Not to mention.

Wizard had lost his train of thought. He looked about himself in some alarm as he come out of his brown study. How had he gotten off the main drag? There were no bus stops on this street. No cafes, either, just business offices: lawyers, accountants, and brokers. He had even lost his orientation. He walked for three more blocks before he figured out where he was. At me next intersection, he turned and headed back toward Western Avenue. His headache throbbed. He had to stop it so he could think. There were things he had best admit to himself and accept, but not without a cup of coffee.

He found a diner that consisted of a long counter and a row of stools. The windows were dirty, with old tape marks on‘ them Inside it smelted of grease. As he approached the counter he dragged his money from his pocket and held it before him like a talisman. He made it to the counter and claimed a stool.

A waitress grudgingly paused before him. She was forty and bursting from an aqua uniform with a line of greasy dirt at the collar. She looked at the money in his hand and demanded,

“What do you want?”

“Coffee.”

She nodded, clanked a saucer and empty cup onto the counter in front of him and hurried away. He stared after her, feeling old. So this was what he had come to. The magic had turned its back on him. Here he sat, no character, no hopes of breakfast, just coins for a cup of coffee. He felt dirty.

On her next trip past, the waitress dumped coffee into his cup, wrote his slip, took his money, gave him change and told him, “You get three refills. And I do keep track.” The whole transaction took her less than a minute. He gave a defeated nod. The coffee was old and black and acid. The cream in me little tin dispenser came out stringy and yellow. The sugar dispenser was stuck shut and she hadn’t given him a spoon.

The magic was gone. The top of the cup tasted bitter and the dregs were a sugary syrup in his mouth. She refilled his cup with more of the same and didn’t hear his request for a spoon.

A heavyset man on the stool next to him gave him a supercilious smile. “Going to sober up, huh? Well, her coffee would sober up Jack Daniels himself.”

“I haven’t been drunk.” Wizard spoke softly but clearly.

“No, me neither. Haven’t been sober, either.” The man laughed at his own witticism and went back to shoveling scrambled eggs. Wizard watched him fork a mound of egg onto a piece of toast and bite the whole thing off at once. The smell of the eggs and the sound of his mastication made Wizard’s stomach roll over. He took a deep drink of the bitter black coffee.

By his fourth cup, his headache had changed to a standard migraine. He drank down the last of the coffee, left a nickel tip and headed for the restroom. No mirror. No hot water, and the cold stayed on only if you held it. A blower instead of paper towels. Wizard patted his face lightly with wet fingertips and stared at the chipped plaster over the sink. On the wall was a condom vending machine. Someone had written on it,

“Don’t buy this gum, it tastes like rubber.” He wanted to find that funny, but couldn’t dredge up a smile. The magic was gone. He headed for the streets.