Angie said, “Got it.”

“Give it to me, baby.”

She didn’t, but she gave me the number.

George Higby is one of those hapless souls who goes through life expecting the rest of the world to be as nice as he is. Since he gets out of bed each morning with the desire to make the world a better place, a slightly easier place to get along in he doesn’t understand that there are actually people who get up with the desire to make the rest of the world suffer. Even after his daughter eloped with a guitar player twice her age who left her strung out in a Reno motel room; even after she then ran into some especially nasty people and ended up working her sixteen-year-old body on the back streets of Vegas; even after Angie and I flew out there and took her away from these nasty people with the assistance of the Nevada State Police; even after this sweet apple of his eye blamed the mess she’d made completely on him; even after all this George still meets the world with the nervous smile of someone who only knows how to be open and decent and prays that, maybe just once, the world might reward him. George is the sort of raw material out of which most organized religions create their foundations.

He answered the phone on the first ring. He always does. He said, “This is George Higby,” and I half expected him to follow it with, “Want to be friends?”

“Hi, George, it’s Patrick Kenzie.”

“Patrick!” George said, and I have to admit that the enthusiasm in his voice made me happy to be me all of a sudden. I felt as if I’d been put on this earth for one reason: to call George on July 2 and make his day. He said, “How are you?”

“I’m great, George. How about yourself?”

“Very good, Patrick. Very good. I can’t complain.”

George was the kind who never could.

I said, “George, I’m afraid this isn’t a strictly social call,” and realized with more than a small measure of guilt that I’d never made a “strictly social call” to George and probably never would.

“Well, no problem, Patrick,” he said, his voice dropping an octave for a moment. “You’re a busy man. What can I do for you?”

“How’s Cindy?” I asked.

“You know kids today,” he said. “At this point in her life, her father is hardly the most important thing to her. That will change, of course.”

“Of course,” I said.

“Got to let them grow up.”

“Sure,” I said.

“And then they come back to you.”

“They do,” I said. Sure they do.

“But enough about me,” he said. “I saw you in the papers the other day. Are you all right?”

“Fine, George. The media blew it all out of proportion.”

“They’ll do that sometimes,” he said. “But then, where would we be without them?”