So Ryan lifted the windshield wiper in front of the doctor’s face and let it snap back to hold the court papers against the windshield. He said to the doctor, “This is a domestic litigation. You’re being sued for divorce, not malpractice.” Like turning it around and telling the doctor his tumor was benign. The doctor, behind the windshield, seemed to sag with relief. Ryan heard him say, “Oh, shit, is that all? Thank you.”

Ryan got his picture in the paper when he served a rock group with a summons during their performance at the Masonic Temple Auditorium. He didn’t do it as a stunt. It was the only way he saw to get close to them. The lead-in to the picture caption said “Show Stopper!” Rita had the newspaper photo blown up in a photostat and mounted and hung it in Ryan’s living room. He showed a nice amount of poise there on the stage in front of the rock group, the freaks gaping at him, the paper extended, and the calm, deadpan expression on his face. Ryan liked the blowup. He would never have thought of hanging something like that in his living room.

The only things he didn’t like about the paper-serving business were evictions and repossessions. Kicking people out of their home was awful. Getting ten bucks a room for the job and usually having to bring boxes for all their pitiful junk. Going in and taking a color TV or a chrome and Formica dinette set was bad enough. He couldn’t get used to it, sticking it to some poor cluck who’d been laid off and was behind on his payments.

“He shouldn’t have bought the item in the first place,” Jay Walt said. “Who’s supposed to eat it, the bank? The store? No, they’d be out of business carrying deadbeats. They got no choice in the final analysis but go to court.”

Jay Walt ran a collection agency now with a high turnover of personnel; he still served some paper, but more as a sideline. Ryan had got to know him, picking up some of his paper work for a split of the fee when Jay Walt was overloaded and Ryan didn’t have much to do.