Dave took a long look, then, at the surrounding roofs—the vertical rows of windows, some now electrically lighted, and some flared with the last copper rays of a sun that was going down in Jersey behind the Orange Mountains where I used to make field maps when I was a Boy Scout. He took still another look at the blue-powder sky, drew one deep breath, and hopped lightly up astride the parapet.
Paul was startled.
So was I.
And so were the cops. They yelled, "Hey!"
Dave made a "cease-fire" gesture behind his back. He inched along the parapet toward Paul, a ways. "You're going inside in a bit, son," he said quietly.
"I haven't decided. And don't rush me."
"But you will. Look, Paul. You know me—pretty well. And you know a good deal about me. From Phil. So listen. I'm a no-account yid bastard who never got—and will never get—a fair shot at using the ability he thinks he has. All I can do is outsmart other corporation lawyers—and get paid big dough for it."
Paul said sneeringly, "If you want to start a self-pity contest—"
"Nope. I was thinking about something else. Pride. Real pride. Things to be proud of. One's you. You weren't born behind any eight-ball. You've got ten times the brains of Phil, here, and me put together. You're in there fighting. And you're a guy—one of the guys who run about three in a hundred—who can look at a yid like me and not see that two thousand year old, imaginary eight-ball. I appreciate that. I'm proud some people can be like that."