Tonight wasn’t the right time for nostalgia. I pulled my eyes from the grimy page and slid a hand around the drawers to see if Mitch might have left some revealing document behind. All I came away with was a black smudge from the accumulated grit. I decided to leave my clothes—really just a clean T-shirt to go with the underwear—in the suitcase.

I scrutinized the room for possible hiding places, pulling back pieces of loose linoleum, peering in the hems of the frail window shades. None of them seemed suitable for concealing anything bigger than a Kleenex. The small stack of papers Mitch had considered important enough to take around with him must have been the limit of his sacred possessions. And those were gone. To his son, or a facsimile thereof.

When I finished my survey I left the suitcase unlocked. I knew Mrs. Polter would be up here pawing through it as soon as I was gone; I didn’t want her to spring the lock to get at the inside. The can of Comet and the rag I left on the floor.

There were four guest rooms on the floor. Pale light poked feebly underneath one door and a radio, tuned to a Spanish station, played softly. Someone was snoring loudly behind the door of a second, but the third seemed empty. Maybe it was just desperation for cash that prompted Mrs. Polter to let me stay—she’d demanded another twenty on top of what I’d paid her for Mitch as soon as I came up the front steps.

My landlady was watching television in the living room when I came down the stairs. The big color console was tuned to pro wrestling. The light coming from the screen far outdid the miserable efforts of the only lamp in the room.

Mrs. Polter sensed my approach over the screaming fans on the screen and turned to look at me. “You taking off, honey?” She didn’t bother to lower the volume.

“Yup.”

“Where you going?”

I brought out the first thing that came to mind. “To a wake.”

She eyed me narrowly. “Kind of strange hour for it, isn’t it, honey?”

“He was kind of a strange guy. Expect me when you see me.” I turned to go.

She tried heaving herself from the armchair. “If someone comes looking for you, what am I supposed to tell them?”

I felt a prickle down my scalp and turned back to the living room. “Now, just why would anyone come around looking for me, Mrs. Polter?”

“I … your friends, I mean. Young girl like you must have lots of friends.”

I leaned against the wall and crossed my arms. “My friends know better than to bother me when I’m working. Who might come around?”

“Anyone. How should I know who you know?”