My head was starting to feel worse; I drank some water and lowered the bed to rest. I slept for a while. When I woke up a young man was sitting in the visitor’s chair watching me with nervous concern. His smooth, round face with its broken nose and doggy brown eyes looked vaguely familiar. I collected myself.

“Pierre Bouchard! How nice to see you. Myron told me you were out of town.”

He smiled and looked much more familiar—I had never seen him around Boom Boom without a smile, “Yes, well, I got back last night. And Anna pointed out the story of your accident in the paper.” He shook his head woefully. “I am so sorry, Vic. First Boom Boom and now this.”

I smiled awkwardly. “My shoulder will heal. And I know you won’t give me sympathy for a mere dislocated shoulder when you’ve had your leg tied up for weeks, and your nose broken three times—”

“Four,” he corrected with a twinkle.

“So did Myron tell you I wanted to see you?”

“Myron? No. How could he when I have only just returned to Chicago? No, Vic. I came for your sake.” He pulled a package from the floor and handed it to me.

I opened it up. Inside was a seal carved from the soap-stone used by Eskimos. I was very touched and told him so.

“Well, in a hospital one gets tired of flowers all day long. I know. This little fellow was carved by Eskimos two, three hundred years ago. I hope he will bring you luck.”

“Thank you, Pierre. I hope he will too. And he will always help me think of you.”

He beamed. “Good, good—only don’t let Anna hear you say that!” He paused a minute. “I came, too, on an errand of Boom Boom’s. I have been in Quebec for two weeks—I flew down for the funeral, you know—then went right back there.

“Well, I got home last night and there was a letter waiting from him! He had mailed it the day before he died.” He fumbled in the breast pocket of his tweedy brown jacket and pulled out the letter, which he handed to me.

Boom Boom was haunting me from the grave with his letters. Everyone was bringing me personal correspondence from him—why didn’t he ever write me? I pulled the single white sheet from its envelope and read the small, neat handwriting.

Pierre

Anna tells me you’re playing in the Coeur d’Argent. Break their heads for me, my friend. I thought I saw Howard the other day in very odd circumstances. I tried calling him but Elsie said he was in Quebec with you. Give me a ring when you get back and let me know.

Boom Boom

“Who’s Howard? Howard Mattingly?”