– You’re gonna need some sprucing up yourself, Chubby.

He fingers the material gathered in pleats at the front of what passes for a waist on a man that big around.

– I made a point of wearing one of last year’s. I generally give them to a charitable organization when my new wardrobe arrives from Hong Kong, but I’ve found it’s wise to hold back one or two. For grubby work.

I nod at Dallas, the pretty boy with the well-defined muscles and the gun.

– That what I am these days, grubby work?

There’s more gray in Chubby’s afro than when I last saw him. More fat being held in by the five-button vest he sports. More wrinkles around the eyes. It’s cold in the tunnels this time of year, our breath puffs out white. Even so, Chubby’s top coat is draped over the arm Dallas isn’t using to point his gun. The fat man has worked up a sweat coming down here.

He fingers a handkerchief, a plain white one, not the blue and white silk that fans from his breast pocket, matching his tie.

– I’m not certain I could say what kind of work you are these days, Joe. It’s been some time since we crossed paths. Some time since anyone has crossed your path. I’d hazard to say that the nature of your work these days is a subject for wild conjecture.

The place is lit by a fluorescent bulb Q-line Dave scavenged from a demo site somewhere up top. It hangs from a hook of coat hanger that’s been twisted around the scrap-wood beam that supports the sagging sheets of waterlogged Sheetrock over our heads. Power comes from a daisy chain of extension cords that snake and tangle through the shanties; little more than bare wires wrapped in electrical tape in some places, they disappear into the darkness, running to a source I’ve never bothered to explore. The head of our Nile down here. There’s a dozen blackouts a week from people tripping over cords in the dark. The lifers live in fear of the real thing: some city engineer noticing the drain and cutting the juice.