If something smells fishy about all this (who knows, I may have omitted a detail or two, or skipped a clue), you have Serge Alwyn to blame. He’s my fall guy. Why Serge? A few years ago I heard him on a radio call-in show, making some comment about Formula One racing. His take was that people in the future would look back on Formula One the way we look back on dogfights today: a boorish, backwards practice. A man after my own heart; an argument not unlike my own. The difference between him and me is that I’ve never shared my deepest convictions on prime-time public radio. It goes without saying that bringing him in is strictly a last resort. The need to point my finger at an innocent person guilty only of sharing a few of my ideas in no way fills me with joy.

I pack a snack: nuts, water, yoghurt in a reusable container, and dried fruit. As always, I scrupulously avoid things that need to be peeled, things that drip, things that smell, and anything that makes noise when you unwrap it. I also brought along a special little drink for Mr. Bonenfant. It’s an unusually mild October day: warm, but not too hot. Perfect. I don’t want him to lock himself inside with the air conditioning on. I need a nice day, the kind where you want to be outside on a Friday night.

I wait for my friend in his yard, shielded by the shed and the hum of his pool filter. It reminds me of the halcyon days of my youth, with fewer trees and more flowers. Bonenfant must pay a gardener to take care of all this rockery. The garden is chock full of plants: forget-me-nots, hostas, coneflowers, tiger lilies, day lilies, lemon lilies, clematis, ferns, rhododendrons, and a wealth of other species I don’t know are all vying for space. It was worth the walk. I hope I don’t get soaked by the automated sprinkler system.

I’m eating what’s left of my cashews when he comes through the patio door. He puts his cellphone down on the table, a massive brushed-glass affair. He sits down with a bottle of mineral water and starts reading Forbes. What a walking cliché! At least he isn’t watching Belarusian porn on his laptop, like last week (though to be fair the country of origin is a guess). At forty-nine, the man looks thirty-five. He’s barely even greying at the temples. Tall and thin. A treadmill junkie. Every night he runs on the spot while watching the 11:00 news on American cable TV. His forgettable looks are enhanced by expensive suits and fashionable haircuts. This evening all he’s done is take off his jacket and roll up his shirt sleeves to his elbows.