—So what do you do, Mr. Litsky?

He stirred his Scotch with a finger.

—I’m a member of the fourth estate.

—A journalist? she said taking out a cigarette. Well, that must be fascinating in a town like this. Tell me all about it.

She sat there with the unlit cigarette between her fingers waiting for Litsky to strike a match. He took a drink of his whiskey instead.

—You can cut the sugar, Blondie. I know exactly who you are.

—And who pray tell is that?

—You’re the one who comes in through the lobby and goes out through the kitchen door.

Pleased by his own poetry, Litsky smiled for the first time in a year.

—Ooh, she replied. What big teeth you have, Grandma.

Litsky raised his glass in the affirmative and emptied it in her honor.

—You want to know what this town is like? he said. I’ll tell you what it’s like. It’s like a waiting room. It’s the largest waiting room in the world. We’re all sitting on wooden benches reading yesterday’s papers, eating yesterday’s lunch. But every now and then, the door to the platform opens and the conductor lets one of us through for a ride on the Millionaire Express. Sometimes, it’s some kid in a mailroom whose story’s found its way to a big oak desk. Sometimes, it’s a dainty damsel who gets plucked off the farm like your friend. But sometimes, it’s for a little guy like me.

He patted the bag that was sitting on the table.

—And when that door opens . . . , he added.

—You’d better go through it, because it may not open again.

—Bingo, Blondie.

She put her chin on her hand and looked at him all dreamy.

—That’s a nice little mustache you’ve got there, Mr. Litsky. How do you do that? How do you leave just that little bit behind?

—I’ve got a light touch.

—I’ll bet you have. Now I’ve got a story for you, she said—finally taking the time to light her own cigarette, to shake the flame from the match and toss it over her shoulder.