“No joke, Mr. Umney,” he said, and as he brought the elevator car to a stop on Three, he began to hack a deep cough I'd never heard in all the years I'd known him. It was like listening to marble bowling balls rolling down a stone alley. He took the Camel out of his mouth, and I was horrified to see the end of it was pink, and not with lipstick. He looked at it for a moment, grimaced, then replaced it and yanked back the accordion grille. “Thuh-ree, Mr. Tuggle.”

“Thanks, Vern,” Bill said.

“Remember the party on Friday,” Vernon said. His words were muffled; he'd taken a handkerchief spotted with brown stains out of his back pocket and was wiping his lips with it. “I sure would admire for you to come.” He glanced at me with his rheumy eyes, and what was in them scared the bejabbers out of me. Something was waiting for Vernon Klein just around the next bend in the road, and that look said Vernon knew all about it. “You too, Mr. Umney – we been through a lot together, and I'd be tickled to raise a glass with you.”

“Wait a minute!” I shouted, grabbing Bill as he tried to step out of the elevator. “You wait just a God damned minute, both of you! What party? What's going on here?”

“Retirement,” Bill said. “It usually happens at some point after your hair turns white, in case you've been too busy to notice. Vernon's party is going to be in the basement on Friday afternoon. Everybody in the building's going to be there, and I'm going to make my world-famous Dynamite Punch. What's the matter with you, Clyde? You've known for a month that Vern was finishing up on May thirtieth.”

That made me angry all over again, the way I'd been when Peoria called me a faggot. I grabbed Bill by the padded shoulders of his double-breasted suit and gave him a shake. “The hell you say!”

He gave me a small, pained smile. “The hell I don't, Clyde. But if you don't want to come, fine. Stay away. You've been acting poco loco for the last six months, anyhow.”