“Godfather wants to see you.” “Why?” “He didn’t say, and I’m not an information booth. Lately he’s been…different.” “Oh?” Monk fidgeted. Tears dropped as his mouth worked around several sentences he couldn’t say in a coherent manner. From what I gathered, Godfather was drinking milk instead of booze. He was mumbling to himself, becoming feeble, staring at nothing, while being less demanding and sleeping more often in his wheelchair. “Blake, I love the old guy. He got me off the street. He’s been a father to me for as long as I can remember.” “Yeah, I like him, too. He’s a real guy, one to travel in the same car with. Monk, he came into this world a whole century ago. Sad to say, maybe his time is up.” “No, damn it, you’re wrong. He has time left. Come to see him now, on your feet or off them.”
