Because most of the crowd stayed as close to the building as police allowed, that gave him an opportunity to slip toward the relative privacy of the parking lot. “Winchette here.” “What have you learned?” Abe Caldwell demanded before breaking into a hacking cough. “Sorry, I’m fighting a damn cold again.” Try emphysema, Stanley thought, not for the first time. Funny that once, in the early stages of their partnership, Abe had implied trepidation about Stanley’s age. As if at fifty-nine Stanley had had one foot in the grave. How ironic that five years later, Stanley felt better than ever, while Abe was mired in denial. Of course, back then, Abe had also believed his grandfather’s pharmaceutical conglomerate was close to patenting a miraculous antiaging drug that would keep Abe eternally forty-nine, eternally chasing women and money. Abe’s hobbies were expensive. He liked anything macho and daring: big game hunting in Africa, treks to Nepal, yacht races through the pirate-infested waters of Southeast Asia, for example.
