Whether anyone ever came to buy this special jewelry, that also I did not know. I had never seen anyone blundering into the place or striding out with a fresher gaze. The windowshade had only been raised once or twice a month during the last year.

Looking down, I thought, strange eyes, do you see the lost canaries? and where did they go?

And added, watch my place, yes? During the night, stay alert. The weather may change. Rain may come. Shadows may touch my doorbell. Much note, please, and long remember.

The shiny agate-marble-mib long-years-ago schoolyard companions did not so much as blink.

At which point, a hand like a magician's slid from the shadows behind the display and pulled the lid down over the eyes.

It was as if the glass blower resented my staring at his stares.

Or perhaps he feared I might sneeze out one eye and come in for a refill.

A customer! That might spoil his perfect record. Ten years of blowing glass and not a single sale.

As a sideline, I wondered, does he sell bathing suits from 1910?

Back in my apartment, I glanced out.

The shade had gone back up again, now that I was not the Inquisition standing outside.

The eyes were bright and waiting.

What, I wondered, will they see tonight?

"With nothing trembles..." Instantly, I awoke.

"What," I said to the empty ceiling.

Had Lady Macbeth said that?

With nothing trembles.

To be afraid of nothing for no reason.

And having to live with that nothing until dawn.

I listened.

Was that the fog bruising my door? Was that the mist testing my keyhole? And was that the special miniature rainstorm prowling my doormat, leaving seaweed?

I was afraid to go look.

I opened my eyes. I looked at the hall which led to my two-by-four kitchen and my two-by-two Singer's Midgets bathroom.

I had hung an old torn white bathrobe there last night.

But now the robe wasn't a robe. With my glasses off and lying on the floor by my cot, my vision being what it was, almost legally blind, the robe had . . . changed.

It was the Beast.

When I was five years old, living east in Illinois, and had to go up some dark stairs in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, the Beast was always at the top of the stairs, unless the small stairwell light was lit. Sometimes my mother would forget to turn it on. I would try terribly hard to make it to the top without looking up. But always I was afraid, and I had to look up. And the Beast was always there, with the sound of the dark locomotives rushing by far out in night country, funeral trains taking dear cousins or uncles away. And stood at the bottom of the stairs and . . .

Screamed.

Now the Beast was hanging here on the edge of my door leading into darkness, the hall, the kitchen, the bathroom.

Beast, I thought, go away.

Beast, I said to the shape. I know you're not there. You're nothing. You're my old bathrobe.

The trouble was, I couldn't see it clearly.

If I could just reach my glasses, I thought, get them on, jump up.

Lying there, I was eight and then seven and then five and then four years old, getting smaller, smaller and smaller as the Beast on the door got bigger and darker and longer.

I was afraid to so much as blink. Afraid that that motion would make the Beast float softly down to ...

"Ah!" someone yelled.

Because the phone, across the street, rang.

Shut up! I thought. You'll make the Beast move.

The phone rang. Four in the morning. Four! Christ. Who...?

Peg? Trapped in a Mexican catacomb? Lost?

The phone rang.

Crumley? With an autopsy report I would hate to hear?

The phone rang.

Or a voice of cold rain and running night and raw alcohol raving in the storm and mourning terrible events, as the great train shrieked on a curve?

The phone stopped.

With my eyes clenched, my teeth gritted, the covers over my head, turned away against the sweaty pillow. I thought I heard a drifting whisper. I froze.

I kept my breath, I stopped my heart.

For, just now, at that very instant . . .

Hadn't I felt something touch and, weigh itself . . .

On the end of my bed?

A. L. Shrank was not the next victim.

Nor did the canary lady suddenly fly around her room once and expire.

Someone else vanished.

And, not long after dawn, the bright glass eyes across the street from my tired apartment saw the arrival of the evidence.

A truck pulled up outside.

Sleepless and exhausted, I heard it, stirred.

Someone knocked on my coffin door.

I managed to levitate and balloon-drift over to crack the door and peer gum-eyed into the face of a great beefy ox. The face named me, I assented to the name, the ox told me to sign here, I signed something that looked like a D.O.A. slip and watched the delivery man hoof back to his half-truck and wrestle a familiar, bundled object off the back and wheel it along the walk.

"My God," I said. "What is it? Who...?"

But the big rolling bundle struck the doorjamb and gave off a musical chord. I slumped, knowing the answer.

"Where do you want it?" said the ox, glancing around Groucho Marx's overcrowded stateroom. "This as good as any?"

He heaved the wrapped object to one side against the wall, looked around with contempt at my Goodwill sofa, my rugless floor, and my typewriter, and cattle-trotted back out to his truck, leaving the door wide.

Over the way, I saw the ten dozen bright blue, brown, hazel glass eyes watching, even as I ripped away the covering to stare at ...

The Smile.

"My God!" I cried. "That's the piano that I heard playing..."

The "Maple Leaf Rag."

Wham. The truck door slammed. The truck roared away.

I collapsed on my already collapsed sofa, totally disbelieving that big, vacant, ivory smile.

Crumley, I said in my mind. I felt the lousy haircut too high in back, too short on the sides. My fingers were numb.

Yeah, kid? said Crumley.

I changed my mind. I thought, Crumley, it's not going to be Shrank or the old bird lady who vanishes.

Gosh, said Crumley, who?

Cal, the barber.

Silence. A sigh. Then . . .

Click. Buzz.

Which is why, gazing at this relic from Scott Joplin years, I did not race forth to telephone my police detective friend.

All the glass eyes across the street examined my haircut and watched me shut my door.

God, I thought, I can't even play "Chopsticks."

The barber shop was open and empty. The ants, the bees, the termites, and the relatives had been there before noon.

I stood in the front door looking at the total evisceration. It was as if someone had shoved a gigantic vacuum cleaner through the front door and sucked everything out.

The piano, of course, had come to me. I wondered who had gotten, or would want, the barber chair, the liniments, the ointments, the lotions that used to color the mirrored wall with their tints and tinctures. I wondered who got all the hair.

There was a man in the middle of the barber shop, the landlord, I seemed to recall, a man in his fifties moving a pushbroom over no hair, just gliding over the empty tiles for no obvious reason. He looked up and saw me.

"Cal's gone," he said.

"So I see," I said.

"Bastard ran off owing me four months' rent."

"Business was that bad, was it?"

"It wasn't the business so much as the haircuts. Even for two bucks they were the lousiest, won awards, in the whole state."

I felt the top of my head and the nape of my neck and nodded.

"Bastard ran off owing me five months' rent. I heard from the groceryman next door Cal was here at seven this morning. Goodwill came at eight for the barber chair. Salvation Army got all the rest. Who knows who got the piano. I'd like to find and sell that, get some of my money." The landlord looked at me.

I said nothing. The piano was the piano. For whatever reasons, Cal had sent it to me.

"Where you think he's gone?" I said.

"Got relatives in Oklahoma, Kansas, Missouri, I hear. Someone was just in said he heard Cal say two days ago he was going to drive until the land gave out and then pitch right into the Atlantic."

"Cal wouldn't do that."

"No, he more likely will sink somewhere in the Cherokee Strip country and good riddance. Jesus, that was bad haircutting."

I wandered in over the clean white tiles through no-hair territory, not knowing what I was looking for.

"Who are you?" said the landlord, half-raising his broom into artillery position.

"The writer," I said. "You know me. The Crazy."

"Hell, I didn't recognize you. Did Cal do that to you?"

He stared at my hairline. I felt blood rush along my scalp. "Only yesterday," I said.

"He could be shot for that."