All in all, it was all right, though living in town wasn’t my preference.

Anyway, I was making coffee and thinking about toast with jelly for breakfast, when I heard a car drive up. I went to the kitchen window over the sink, looked out. It was Charlie Blank. He was getting out from behind the wheel of a clean white Ford. A middle-aged, gray-haired guy in a brown suit got out on the passenger’s side. He looked up at the duplex as if he were observing some prehistoric hovel. Of interest, but surprised people once lived there, even more surprised to think someone might be squatting there now, perhaps supping on mastodon marrow.

Charlie, as usual, was wearing a colorful Hawaiian shirt, slacks, tennis shoes, and a sports coat the color of mustard, or if you really want to get technical, baby shit. A straw boater had replaced his felt porkpie. The new hat, I presumed, was part of his spring ensemble. The shoes he had on were the kind you might dress a juvenile Frankenstein monster in, black, thick-soled, and solid enough to drive a nail. He had a greasy brown bag in one hand.

I listened to them clunk up the stairs and opened the door before they could knock.

“My man,” Charlie said.

“How are you, Charlie?”

“All right. I got someone needs to see you. Can we come in?”

“What’s the password?”

“I’m throwing out your old parking tickets.”

“I don’t have any.”

“Well, if you had some.”

“Come on in. Sorry about the place, maid’s day off.”

The guy in the suit hadn’t cracked a smile, not even a sly grin. I couldn’t tell if he was humorless or if Charlie and I were just boring. Probably the latter.