His office walls were bare except for two framed diplomas and several short wooden bookshelves holding volumes of law. But the plaster still bore black scorch marks where the Machine had tried to burn him out two years ago.

Soon he heard a short rap on the door, and his old buddy, Leland Jones, walked in and asked him if he’d like to join him and his wife for supper. Patterson said he sure appreciated that, but he’d had a milkshake with an egg and a hamburger at a drive-in before he left Montgomery.

“Why’d you put an egg in it?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Why’d you put an egg in it?”

“What?”

“Pat, you ain’t paying a damn bit of attention to me.”

Patterson crumpled up another envelope and tossed it over his shoulder, his eyes slowly meeting Jones’s. “’Course I have.”

“The hell you say.”

“What is it?”

“You got to eat.”

“I’m fine,” Patterson said. His eyes returned to the desk, that narrow space of white light on the letters.

“Something eating you, Pat?”

Patterson shook his head.

“What do you think about the hearings?”

“I’ll let you know Monday.”

“What’s Monday?”

“When I testify against those bastards.”

“So you’re going to do it.”

Patterson nodded.

“You found something on them, didn’t you?”

Patterson nodded again.

Jones asked Patterson to dinner one more time, saying his wife was waiting in the car, and Patterson told him no again, saying he had more paperwork to do. But it wasn’t but ten minutes later that he signed the last signature of thanks, fixed the last stamp on the last bill, grabbed his hat and cane, and cut off his lamp.

A ceiling fan rocked and squeaked above him. The air conditioner hummed and dripped. He locked up and used the handrail to clog his way down the narrow staircase with that specially fitted shoe bumping all the way down to Fifth Avenue.