“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.

“Like hell you don’t. You’ve been bouncing in here, saying hello and how are you. Smiling and laughing.”

“I’m happy to see you,” I said. “Is that so bad?”

“Since when are you happy about anything?” He gave me that Popeye squint of his. “It’s January, for God’s sake.”

“Almost February,” I said. “How many inches have we had?”

“Don’t even say that, Alex. You’ll jinx it. You know a storm’s coming.”

“I had another cancellation today. There’s not enough snow to ride on.” This time of year, snowmobiling was the biggest business in Paradise, Michigan. Hell, it was the only business. Every rental cabin in town, and every motel room, was booked months in advance. On most January nights, Jackie’s place would be crawling with men from downstate, most of them with their big puffy snowsuits zipped down to the waist.

And that sound. The whine of the engines, coming from every direction. It always drove me crazy. But this night was silent.

“Tonight,” he said. “We’ll get buried. You watch.”

I shrugged and looked up at the hockey game. “Bring it on.”

“And what’s with the salad, anyway?”

“What salad?”

“Lettuce and vegetables, Alex. That salad.”

“What are you talking about?”

“For dinner. You had a salad.”

“I had the stew, Jackie. Since when can I pass that up?”

“You had a little bowl of stew and a big salad.”

“Okay, so?”

“You don’t eat salads for dinner. I’ve never seen you eat a salad in fifteen years.”