Stuart Jackson told me two days later when he appeared in the vile yellow cubicle at Bridgewater. “You must bill by the hour.” I didn’t respond. The words were offensive but the body language was not. Everything about him drooped. His shoulders sagged. Under bloodshot eyes, the flesh was pouched in flabby bags. The bantam rooster was now a shuffling old man. “You doing okay?” I asked. He gave a bitter laugh that sent a wave of mildewy odor in my direction. “You want the truth? I’m doing shitty. What’s the use?” “You getting any sleep?” He shrugged. “How is she?” “Syl? She’s getting better. Day by day. By the way, did you know this guy, Angelo?” “The Italian Ken doll?” “That’s the one.” “He showed up around the time she came out of the coma.” “Was that when they told you that you couldn’t visit her anymore?” “She traded one guardian angel for another.” “That’s what she calls him, you know. Her guardian angel. Had you seen or heard of him before that?”
