As usual he wore ersatz Brooks Brothers: olive green gabardine suit, yellow button - down, mint and gold rep stripe tie, oxblood wing tips. The total effect was as preppy as W. C. Fields in red skivvies.

He ignored me and concentrated on the pizza.

"So glad you could make it for breakfast."

When his plate was empty he asked, "So, how are you doing, pal?"

"I was doing great. What can I do for you, Milo?"

"Who says I want you to do anything?" He brushed crumbs from his lap to the rug. "Maybe this is a social call."

"You waltzing in, unannounced, with that bloodhound look all over your face isn't a social call."

"Such intuitive powers." He ran his hands over his face, as if washing without water. "I need a favor," he said.

"Take the car. I won't be needing it until late afternoon. "

"No, it's not that this time. I need your professional services."

That gave me pause.

"You're out of my age range," I said. "Besides, I'm out of the profession."

"I'm not kidding, Alex. I've got one of your colleagues lying on a slab at the morgue. Fellow by the name of Morton Handler."

I knew the name, not the face.

"Handler's a psychiatrist."

"Psychiatrist, psychologist. Minor semantic distinction at this point. What he is, is dead. Throat slashed, a little bit of evisceration tossed in. Along with a lady friend - same treatment for her but worse - sexual mutilation, nose sliced off. The place where it happened - his place - was an abattoir."

Abattoir. Milo's master's degree in American Lit asserting itself.

I put down my coffee cup.