Bobby gave her a look like, “I’ve been in jail for almost four years, but even I know that one,” and then suddenly he’s talking turkey with a sales representative. Oh yeah—the automatic defrosters cause all the racket. They’ve got side-by-side doors or over-and-under. Gallon jug capacity in the door. Egg storage, also in the door. Colors. Cubic footage. Automatic ice maker.

In less than an hour, a delivery truck showed up and Bobby and the delivery men, smiling Asians in neat blue uniforms, tore the packing box apart and transferred all her food from the old refrigerator to the new one. There wasn’t much—lettuce, baloney, milk—the usual. Bobby watched them with intense interest. “We Americans underpower our motors, don’t you think? On a hot day, that ol’ thing is huffing constantly. It’s sufferin’ from emphysema as we speak. The poor Little Engine that couldn’t. Soundin’ like a D-6 Cat with a Kotex in a Coke can for a muff-a-ler. Ever since I walked in the door it has been causin’ me great psychic duress. I believe that my nerves are more than slightly frayed. That I am a bit edgy. Forgive me for rattlin’ on so. I’m somewhat overcome. Perhaps I should make the switch ovah from regular coffee to a decaffeinated brand.”

A worker plugged in the new refrigerator and flipped on the power settings for the freezer, the meat drawer, and the main compartment. It was virtually impossible to hear the motor but Bobby placed his hands in the freezer and proclaimed that it was working. “Black is a’ ace of a color, don’cha think? Pretty cool, huh?”

He paid the delivery men with a roll of crisp one-hundred-dollar bills. “Thanks evah so much, fellas,” he said, handing them each an extra hundred. “Here is a little kiss goodbye for such fast and courteous service. The world needs more people who take special pains to get things right.” He gave them a hand in gathering up the packing materials and then as they rolled the old refrigerator out to their truck, he waved goodbye.

Geez! The size of Bobby’s roll made her paranoid. He had to be printing money again. Thirty-four months in prison and he comes out and starts committing serious federal crimes. He would never learn. The diamond necklace—bought with phony money or stolen outright? Don’t ask. It was merchandise. It gave her a small thrill to wear it but she really didn’t want the damn thing or the new refrigerator either. Ultimately it would be nothing but guilt and depression.