“You’re an asshole.”

“Don’t we both know that.”

“I swear, Pelham—”

“Save it, Eric.”

A long pause then. Jamie pulled the corked stopper from the bottle and turned away from the mouthpiece and drank. His ear still flattened hot to the earpiece, waiting. The liquor was pretty bad but he drank it because it was his. He felt the day he stopped drinking it was the day he would stop selling it. Then the noise over the line grew muffled, went away. For a moment he thought Gurnsey had hung up. Then realized his hand was over the mouthpiece. This was not good. He waited. Maybe it was not good. After a brief time Gurnsey came back on.

“It’s a sporting goods man from Providence. He’s at the end of the first of two weeks. I understand his wife and kids are at the shore. On the Cape. So he’s just another lonely old fart. Nothing to worry about. She’s just doing her job.”

“What’s his name?”

“I don’t know his name.”

“Don’t fuck with me Eric. I’m not coming up there anyway. But I won’t be a fool.”

Another pause, this time with all the noise. Gurnsey then said, as if breathing out, “His name’s Sloane.”

“A Jew?”

“Not here.”

“Sloane.” Turned up the bottle once again. “What’s he look like.” Gurnsey sighed. “Like an old man. Forget it, Pelham. Its nothing.”

“What’s he look like?”

Gurnsey said, “There’s men would be happy to shoot you and have you gone. You know that, don’t you?”

“Fuck off, Eric. What’s he look like?”

A long pause then. “He’s fifty. Maybe fifty-five. A little bald but in good shape. Well-dressed, well-mannered. Like I said, sporting goods man. Hikes daytimes. Has a chest of guns with him. Hired a caddie to toss clay pigeons for him. In the early evenings. Every day. He can double if the caddie is fast enough. A fisherman also, up in the mornings. A drinker at night. But not so he doesn’t tuck into his food. That enough?”

“I guess maybe so.”

“Jamie?”

“I’m right here.”

“It’s just her job.”

“I know that.”

Again, quiet. Then Gurnsey said, “Anything I can do.” It was not a question, not quite an offer.

“Not a thing, Eric. Not a fucking thing.”

“It’ll pass, Jamie. It’s just a thing.”