"You tell that to our cops, and they'll surely get you tucked away in a nice hospital, but fast. Well, why else would he kill her?"
"I don't know. That's why I asked you—you know so much more about such things, in your barb—in your time."
"Your policewoman will have to figure it out for herself. So long, Mike." She shook her head, smiling. "Will I have a tale to tell the crowd—if they don't decide I've gone nuts myself! Good-by!"
"Goobie, Citizen, and grats again."
Still smiling, she hurried down the path out of the park.
When he could see her no longer, Mikel stood up and began hesitantly to walk toward the restaurant she had pointed out. Fortunately, it was on the same side of the street, not far past the shop where he tried to sell the knife.
This was not going to be plez, not at all plez. Despite what this Beti French had told him, he was nervous about putting himself in the hands of either the police or psychologist of this barbarous era. But there didn't seem to be anything else he could do. His conversation with the redheaded girl had shown him clearly what kind of reception he would meet from anyone else he ventured to approach.
First he must eat—he was ravenous. He dared not ask for any food except the two things the girl had mentioned, whatever they were like. Presumably the money she had given him would be enough.
The restaurant had a long counter of some white substance, with stools fixed before it. Only one man sat there eating, but behind it stood another man dressed in white, with a white cap on his head. Mikel perched himself on the nearest stool.