At eleven-fifteen I saw Clete’s maroon convertible coming up the long driveway past the city library and the grotto dedicated to Jesus’ mother. When I went outside, all his windows were down and he was smiling at me from behind the wheel, his eyes clear, his face pink and unlined. A long-stemmed lavender rose rested on his dashboard. “How about an early lunch at Victor’s Cafeteria?” he said.“You brought me a rose?”“No, the gal I was with last night brought me a rose. In fact, her name was Rose.”I got in on the passenger side and sat back in the deep leather comfort of the seat. “You look good,” I said.“Maybe if I could go three days without booze, I’d rejoin the human race. I got the gen on that Luger I took off of Frankie Gee. It belonged to a guy in the SS by the name of Karl Engels. He was in Paris in 1943, then he dropped off the screen.” He waited for my response. When I didn’t speak, he said, “Say what you’re thinking.”“It’s a start.”“That’s it, a start?”“I don’t know what else to say.”“No, that’s not it at all.
