Free The City When It Rains by Thomas H. Cook

enough to see her glance back at him with one of her teasing, “gotcha” smiles.
    They made two complete rounds of the park, then glided into the large esplanade that surrounded a white band shell which the city had erected for some of its outdoor concerts. Green wooden benches lined the area, and Lucy quickly plopped down on one.
    â€œI went fast,” she said as she unzipped her parka.
    â€œYeah,” Corman told her as he pulled up behind.
    â€œIt gets you hot,” she said. “Can I take it off?”
    â€œYou’ll forget and leave it on the bench,” Corman said. “You’ve done that before.”
    â€œNo, I won’t,” Lucy said. “Please?”
    â€œOkay,” Corman told her. “Just make sure you remember it when we leave.”
    â€œI’ll put it in my basket,” Lucy said. Then she quickly stripped it off and crammed it into the small wicker basket which hung from the handlebars.
    â€œCan I get a hot dog?” she asked as she returned to the bench.
    â€œWhy don’t we wait for Giselle?”
    â€œShe’s probably already eaten.”
    â€œI doubt that.”
    â€œHow about a pretzel, then?”
    â€œAll right,” Corman said. He fished a dollar bill from his pocket and gave it to her.
    â€œBe right back,” Lucy said as she dashed toward the hot dog wagon at the other end of the esplanade.
    Corman leaned back and stretched his long, slender legs out in front of him. Here and there other people lounged on the benches or walked quietly across the brick-covered ground. From time to time a lone bicyclist would glide nonchalantly by, sometimes nodding quickly, but usually offering only a brief, apprehensive glance.
    Lucy came bounding toward him, a huge salted pretzel dangling like a bridle bit from her mouth.
    â€œIt’s a good one,” she said. She stretched her hand toward him. “Want the change?”
    â€œYou keep it.”
    She smiled brightly. “Thanks.”
    For the next few minutes they sat together silently while Lucy finished off the pretzel. Some sort of band was beginning to set up on the orchestra shell. They were all dressed in black shirts and trousers. From the look of their instruments, it was going to be a fully electrified performance. Tangles of thick black wire hung over the side of the platform or spread out in ever-widening coils along the stage itself.
    â€œIt’s the Heebee-Jeebees,” Lucy informed him. “It’s heavy metal.”
    â€œI see.”
    â€œYou wouldn’t like it.”
    â€œI might.”
    Lucy shook her head determinedly. “No, you wouldn’t.”
    â€œI like all kinds of music,” Corman insisted.
    â€œNot this,” Lucy said. She got to her feet. “Let’s go.”
    She was pedaled away in an instant. Corman trailed after her, following her out of the esplanade then around the park again. He thought she might wheel back around the band shell, but she continued on, past the wide wet expanse of the Sheep Meadow, then to the whirling carousel, and still onward around the park, circling it again and again, stopping only once, briefly, near the exit at 72nd Street, where a lone troubadour stood almost within the dark shadow of the Dakota, crooning one John Lennon song after another, as if in perpetual reverence for the things he had imagined.
    Toward early afternoon, Corman called Edgar and told him to bring Giselle to the large playground near the southern end of the park. They arrived a few minutes later, Giselle bounding happily ahead while her father lumbered behind, his somewhat portly body wrapped in a Humphrey Bogart-style trenchcoat and floppy hat.
    Edgar glanced doubtfully at the bench as he came toward it. “Is this thing dry?”
    â€œAs much as it’s going to get,” Corman said.
    â€œOkay,” Edgar said as he sat down. He pulled off his hat and slapped it against his knee, then abruptly