Lots of people wear plain clothes but this one does it more so. Mrs G is shuffling on the top floor and the plainclothesman must be able to hear her, their hearing is always so good. Mrs G can hear the plainclothesman, no doubt about it. His clothes are so quiet they shout. Mrs G knows how to look out without being seen. I am the face of the house to the plainclothesman. I am what he must look at if not at her, what he must listen to if not to her. When they are not wearing plain clothes their shoulders are giftgreen. They bear God's green earth like a fleet of Atlases, and like all atlases they are full of maps. I would flip his head open and turn it to Washington, go to see the cherry trees. He is chatting the weather and my eyes are blue and unclouded for now. I know he will not leave without asking. Wrong: he will do what he wills to do. But what they generally do is ask. He does what they generally do. Why yes, I say, I have. Widow woman, two kids. Hidden closet at the top of the house. He will do what he wills to do. He is like any agent, a rational being, an end in himself.