From The District File

Mr. M-I say Mr. M to exercise caution-is a rich man by my standards. I respect him because although he has ample resources he has never left the neighborhood. He treats everyone as an equal. He is generous with children who collect for their clubs. There is nothing ostentatious in his apartment. Of course it is large. One never gets the sense that food or drink is lacking, but one is served modest portions. There is no condescension. One is greeted warmly and one is sped on one's way warmly. But one feels-one knows-that behind it all there is amplitude of resources, a solid wealth that informs his every move with strength and confidence. So you can imagine my astonishment when one day, at a mid-distance of several blocks, I saw a police officer strike him on his head with a truncheon. I was standing idly by the curb, enjoying the early spring sun, taking in the scene at large, of which he was merely a small point. I remember thinking he must be instilling more pride in the officer by favoring him with a kind word or two. It was a common maneuver of his with the many public servants in our immediate area, and it had the effect of making the sun all the more warming. And then, without my really registering it, Mr. M. suddenly raised his hands and his voice, and the officer gave him a distinct crack on the head. It was like a little bit of thunder in a clear sky. I was shocked, of course, and began rushing to him until I saw that he was himself scurrying in my direction, his hand, leaking blood, pressed to his scalp. He was white with rage. "My dear Mr. M.," I said, "what has happened? How can I help you?" He pushed himself by me, taking no notice of me. Aha, I thought, just a bit irritated, now the fur will fly. And I sauntered casually, near the offending police officer, to have a good view of the action. He was a brutish but happy-looking man with thick anxiety over his action, nor did he seek to move. You're in for it now, my man, I thought. Mr. M. is no mere nobody. The minutes extended to the quarter hours and finally an entire hour had passed. No siren, no Mr. M., no squadron chief, no public official, no supporters, no onlookers (except myself). Everything was as usual. What, then, had Mr. M. done? Was it possible that he had transgressed the law? Was there more to it than met the eye? I went home to think about it.