Natty Silver, I thought. This might be kind of fun.

Uh-huh.

I rang the doorbell to room 5812.

“Who is it?” a voice asked from behind the door.

“Mr. Silverstein, it’s me. Neal Carey.”

“Am I expecting you?”

“Yes, you are.”

My head throbbed.

“Where are you from, Neal Carey?”

“Originally, New York.”

A long pause.

“City or state?” the voice asked.

Throb, throb, throb.

“City,” I answered.

Pause.

“East or West Side?”

“West.”

Another long pause, during which the throbbing turned to pounding.

“Mr. Silverstein?” I asked. “Are you okay?”

“Who’s buried in Grant’s Tomb?”

A trick question.

“Grant and Mrs. Grant,” I said. You have to get up pretty early in the afternoon to put one over on Neal Carey.

“What’s on the corner of Fifty-eighth and Amsterdam?” he asked.

“There is no corner of Fifty-eighth and Amsterdam.”

Who did he think he was playing with, a child? I thought with some annoyance. Of course, if I hadn’t been so annoyed, I might have asked myself the question: Why is Nathan Silverstein being so careful and what is he afraid of? But I was too concerned with my own state of mind to think of that. This is what happens when you tend to be as self-absorbed as I am.

The door opened a sliver. I saw a tiny face with big blue eyes peek out.

Great, I thought. My fiancee wants an insta-child and I end up babysitting Yoda.

“Hi,” I said.

Okay, okay. I never claimed to be a great wit.

“Hello yourself.”

“May I come in?”

“Why not?”

Nathan Silverstein was a small man with wispy white hair, a small beak of a nose, and skin as crinkled and tan as an old paper bag. He was wearing a white terrycloth robe with Mirage stenciled on it and a pair of cloth slippers.