JACK REPLIED. “You lie, McIntyre,” Paul said, smiling. “Took the camera to the shop yesterday after I called, didn’t you?” “Damn the world’s detectives.” “The light meter always has been a problem.” Paul took a seat at the table. Jack brought him a plate piled with steaming scrambled eggs. They were at Jack’s place, a ramshackle cottage with a sunny deck amid a flourishing forest of poison oak, off Fern Way in the Carmel Highlands. Paul had arrived the night before, unexpectedly early. While Jack pulled out sheets and blankets for the couch, Paul explained that his boss in San Francisco had told him his replacement, a transfer from Fresno, would be in the next morning. “I hate being redundant,” he explained. “Besides. When you’re done, you’re done. I wasn’t going to limp around the place like a duck for two weeks when somebody was available to take over. So I kissed the women and slapped the guys on the back and went home and packed my duffel. I’ll finish moving when I find a place down here.”
