I'm Nick Bancroft. In my hometown, Central City, Illinois, I squeezed out a leisurely living as a freelance reporter and private investigator.

"You lack ambition," Maggie sometimes reminds me, "but I don't care because my ex-husband was overwhelmed by it and never had time for me."

"Did I really promise to take you to a band concert?" I said as I sipped coffee and sought room to stretch my legs during a leisurely Sunday breakfast in the kitchen of my apartment. Our knees touched as we sat at the fold-down table.

"Look, Nick, if you're going to weasel..."

"Have I ever weaseled on a promise to you?"

Maggie looked at the ceiling, lowered her gaze, and rolled her eyes as though she was about to faint. Later, after she'd "done her face," and put on a pink and blue dress that swirled away from her slender legs when she turned fast enough, we strolled hand in hand toward the Methodist Church three blocks away.

"Such a nice morning," Maggie said as we gazed at blue skies and a few fluffy clouds. A breeze tugged gently at her hair.

I walked her to the church and moseyed on to Kellog's Drug Store a couple of blocks down Division Street, bought a copy of the Sunday Chicago Tribune and strolled back to the apartment.

I read about the Chicago Bears dim prospects of winning a game. The cat, which had been content lying beside me on the couch, jumped down, went to the door, and rubbed against Maggie's leg when she entered the apartment.

She kicked off her shoes, slipped out of panties, pulled the dress over her head and went into the bedroom.

"Shame," I said. "You having just come from church and all."

"I'm sorry if I embarrassed you," she said.

"I missed you," I said as I lay in bed on my back beside her. "But you do wear me out."

"Ha. You recover fast enough."

I kissed her ear.

"I missed you too," she admitted. "But I enjoyed visiting my sons and their families."

That evening, after driving my Escort through the four blocks of downtown Central City, I turned on Park Drive and entered the half-empty blacktop parking lot above a natural amphitheater in Oakglen Park. Oak and elm trees rimmed the top of the west and north banks. A small lake hemmed in the east side. The bandstand nestled at the back of the hollow. It had been repaired some twenty years before but still was kept freshly painted. The park was one of Central City's "Points of pride."

After I parked the car Maggie and I strolled down a wide cement path past semicircular rows of wooden park benches. She led me to the front row. Large speakers stood guard at either end of the stage. A path led away from the benches up to a concession stand. Behind the benches a grassy slope provided space for blankets and lawn chairs.

I slouched on a park bench hoping time wouldn't stand still as we waited for the concert to begin on that late August evening. The afternoon heat had dissipated. A breeze rustled through the trees high above. Clouds, highlighted by slanting sun rays, drifted by now and then.

Maggie introduced me to Nina Fitch, or was it Fatch. They chatted about the public library and how Nina loved the books Maggie chose for her daughter. Nina's plump face was as lined as her wrinkled shorts. Her faded blouse was a size too small.

Her daughter, perhaps six years old, with straight brown hair and large brown eyes, squirmed her way onto my lap. She smelled of Ivory soap.

"Do you like me?" she said. Her eyes held mine until I said, "Sure."

She bounced a couple of times and said, "Bet you don't know my name."

Before I could admit my ignorance she said, "When will the music start?"

I shrugged.

"Why don't you talk to me?"

And so it went. The questions came faster than I could answer. Eventually I just said, "Because." She countered with, "Why?"

Nina and her daughter left to join a woman and two children a couple of rows behind us. I sighed and squirmed on the bench. Two old guys settled on the bench behind us and argued about the proposal for a mega hog farm north of town that would, according to one, stink up the town and poison the water supply.

"That's all a bunch of bullshit," one of the guys said. "Modern technology prevents the smell and the pollution."

"It's not a bunch of bullshit, it's hog shit and nothing is gonna keep it from smelling and polluting. Corporations don't care about modern technology. It costs money. The only thing they care about is profit, and to hell with the rest," the other voice replied.

I'd heard the arguments often. I tried to tune them out by observing the variety of humans flowing down the ramp. Musical instrument cases, large and small, were attached to some. Those persons, all dressed in black slacks--white shirts for men, white blouses for women--meandered to behind the bandstand and eventually appeared on the stage.

Sounds, at first isolated, became a raucous chorus of discordant notes, and challenged the boom of a kettle drum.

I said, "They aren't very good are they?"

Maggie faced me.

"You know, smart ass, they're just tuning up. Sit up before you slide off the bench."

"Speaking of ass, you've got a built-in cushion there to sit on. I'm all muscle."

She stood and looked behind us, as slim as a teenager. Well, almost. A brown belt surrounded the top of her tan shorts. A black, silky blouse fitted nicely over her breasts. Tan sandals completed the outfit. Her hair, near the color of the shorts at the moment, was cropped and gave her that cool look. "People still sit on the slope on blankets," she said. "I used to do that with my boys. They never sat still. I spent more time trying to keep track of them than I did listening."

I stood to keep the disfigurement of my rear from becoming permanent. Familiar faces, some I could even connect with names, were scattered among the swelling crowd.

Richard Bowles, editor of the Central City Press, and his wife, Ruth, ambled down the walk as racing kids jostled them. Poor Richard. He'd told me once that he would have left Central City long ago if it hadn't been for his kids.

"What do the kids have to do with it?" I asked.

"They're so happy here. They like school, their friends, everything is so comfortable for the whole family."

I wondered then if I would have felt trapped in the gutless news coverage of the Press if I had a family.

The tall frame of Luther Bishop stood out in a line at the refreshment stand near the top of the slope. He had been an unsuccessful candidate for state representative in the last election.

To the left of the stand Bruce Locket sought souls for his Church of the Gathering. I turned away, hoping he wouldn't spot me and come seeking publicity. I waited a minute or so and looked back. He had moved on. But Big Ed Coburn, the county board chairman and farm implement dealer, was there glad-handing voters.

A steady stream of squealing children flowed back and forth in front of and behind Maggie and me. I sat and continued to squirm, trying to find a comfort zone.

Maggie said, "See, I told you we'd have to get here early for a good seat. The benches are nearly filled already."

More people filed down from the parking area and onto the benches, or carried their lawn chairs and blankets to open spots on the slope.

"Yeah," I said. "Those late comers will be sorry. They won't be able to hear a thing."

I smelled the whiskey and cigar before I was shoved against Maggie to make room on the bench for Big Ed.

"Surprised a hotshot like you would attend our little band concert," he said as he pressed his big ass against me. My inclination was to punch him in the nose. That's just what he wanted so he could file charges. He'd been harassing me ever since I cut him out of a photo that appeared in the Central City Press while I was working there.

Maggie glanced at Big Ed and turned away. She'd once said, "When that creep looks at me I feel like he's looking up my skirt and I'm not wearing any underwear."

We both tried to ignore him as noise from the stage increased. The kettle drum guy, not much taller than the drum, thumped it with a drumstick, adjusted the tightness of the skin with turnbuckle-like things, and thumped it again. The band director appeared in matching coat and pants and a generous portion of shoulder decorations. He stood facing the band. A single note sounded from one of the instruments. This apparently was a signal for the others to duplicate the sound.

Big Ed stood, sneered down at me, and waddled away.

The director tapped his baton on the podium. The noise from the stage ceased and the murmur of conversation behind us dwindled. The conductor raised his baton.

A whip-crack sound bit into the air. A scream followed. The director's baton remained frozen in space. An instant of silence was shattered by, "Somebody help. She's bleeding. I think she's been shot."

The screamer stood in the third row to our left on the far side of the amphitheater. I dodged benches and people and raced to the scene. I put my hands on the screamer's shoulders and assured her it would be all right to rest her lungs. She collapsed and edged away from the body of a young woman sprawled on the bench. Blood dripped from the young woman's forehead.

I pressed a finger into her neck. No pulse. She was dead.