As I made my way back down I thought gloomily about my own old age, if I lived that long, and probable end. Would it be like this, in a derelict boardinghouse, with nothing but an old TV and some threadbare jeans for an ungrieving landlady to pick through? I wouldn’t even have Mr. Contreras to mourn me. Just as my fantasies were reaching a peak of dreary loneliness, I caught my foot in a loose piece of linoleum and reached the bottom on my hands and knees. I swore and dusted myself off—nothing injured but my pride. If I went around daydreaming instead of keeping my wits about me, Mr. Contreras would at least survive to mourn me.

“That you falling in there?” Mrs. Polter asked when I regained the porch. “Thought I heard kind of a thud.”

“But not worth your while to come investigate. You should get that linoleum tacked down. It’d be kind of hard for you to haul away your boarders’ bodies if they tripped and croaked.… When did Mitch Kruger die?”

She shrugged majestic shoulders. “Couldn’t tell you that, honey. But his son was by here first thing this morning. Matter of fact, I wasn’t even up. He caught me still in my curlers.”

That must have been an awe-inspiring sight. “What did he look like, this son?”

She moved her shoulders again. “I didn’t take his picture. He was a youngish fella, maybe your age, maybe a little older.”

“Did he leave a phone number in case you needed to reach him?”

“I don’t have any call to reach him, honey. I told him the same I’m telling you: take what you want while the room’s still paid for, ’cause at the end of the week I’m turning the rest over to the Goodwill.”

It made me uneasy to give up the room, give up Mitch’s last connection to life. I thought about shelling out another fifty to hang on to the room through next week. And yet, what could I possibly find in there?

Still uneasy, I crossed the street to Tessie’s. She remembered me at once, even what I’d been drinking.

“You look kind of hot today, honey. Want another draw?”

I slid onto the stool. The thin brew soothed my raw throat. Her bar wasn’t air-conditioned, but it was out of the glare of the sun. A fan blowing down the counter dried my sweat, giving me the illusion of coolness.

“I didn’t have time for lunch. Do you sell sandwiches or anything?”

She shook her head regretfully. “The best I can do for you is a bag of chips or pretzels, honey.”

I ate the pretzels with my second beer. We had the bar to ourselves. She was watching Donahue on a small black-and-white set tucked under the whisky bottles. The TV was too clean to have been Mitch’s.