This time it was a man. I explained that this number had been recently reissued and suggested that he should check with the directory or the operator about the whereabouts of his friend. I envied Phil his devoted friends and was inclined to be a little hard on him for not keeping them abreast of his moves from place to place. I wondered if I would get calls forwarded to me from the City House. I made a mental note to phone Gus at the bar and give him my new number. For some reason, known best to my marrow, I didn’t get around to it for several weeks. I tried to get Pambos out of my head. He was dead. There’d be no more viewing of his treasures, no more discussions about the poisoning of Napoleon. Pambos was dead. It seemed strange, hard to accept. The image of him moving his coffee cup closer to me at the counter at the United was still at least as clear as the one with the letter-opener. As I looked around the room, I could see him disposing of the contents of my cardboard boxes and then flattening out the cartons and tying them with string.
