he street I meet a vigorous workman who is wheeling along
some kind of industrial trolley; it has what appears to be a tank of
propane on it.

We make eye contact. We nod politely. I walk past him. "Hey! Excuse
me sir!" he says.

"Yes?" I say, stopping and turning.

"Have you seen," the guy says rapidly, "a black guy, about 6'7", scars
on both his cheeks like this--" he gestures--"wears a black baseball
cap on backwards, wandering around here anyplace?"

"Sounds like I don't much WANT to meet him," I say.

"He took my wallet," says my new acquaintance. "Took it this morning.
Y'know, some people would be SCARED of a guy like that. But I'm not
scared. I'm from Chicago. I'm gonna hunt him down. We do things like
that in Chicago."

"Yeah?"

"I went to the cops and now he's got an APB out on his ass," he says
with satisfaction. "You run into him, you let me know."

"Okay," I say. "What is your name, sir?"

"Stanley...."

"And how can I reach you?"

"Oh," Stanley says, in the same rapid voice, "you don't have to reach,
uh, me. You can just call the cops. Go straight to the cops." He
reaches into a pocket and pulls out a greasy piece of pasteboard.
"See, here's my report on him."

I look. The "report," the size of an index card, is labelled PRO-ACT:
Phoenix Residents Opposing Active Crime Threat.... or is it Organized
Against Crime Threat? In the darkening street it's hard to read. Some
kind of vigilante group? Neighborhood watch? I feel very puzzled.

"Are you a police officer, sir?"

He smiles, seems very pleased by the question.

"No," he says.

"But you are a 'Phoenix Resident?'"

"Would you believe a homeless person," Stanley says.

"Really? But what's with the...." For the first time I take a close
look at Stanley's trolley. It's a rubber-wheeled thing of industrial
metal, but the device I had mistaken for a tank of propane is in fact a
water-cooler. Stanley also has an Army duffel-bag, stuffed tight as a
sausage with clothing or perhaps a tent, and, at the base of his
trolley, a cardboard box and a battered leather briefcase.

"I see," I say, quite at a loss. For the first time I notice that
Stanley has a wallet. He has not lost his wallet at all. It is in his
back pocket and chained to his belt. It's not a new wallet. It seems
to have seen a lot of wear.

"Well, you know how it is, brother," says Stanley. Now that I know
that he is homeless--A POSSIBLE THREAT--my e