It took a long time, but after a while he heard a clattering sound inside, and the security chain was drawn back. The door opened, and in the dim hallway, Neil saw a wizened old man in an invalid chair.

“Are you Billy Ritchie?” he asked, quite loudly, in case the old man was deaf.

“That’s me, sir. What do you want?”

“I’m afraid it’s kind of hard to tell you in one breath. But I was talking to Doughty out on the jetty at Bodega Bay, and he said I should come see you. He said you could tell me some stories of the old days.”

The old man nodded. He was bald, smooth-shaven, and toothless, and the only hairy thing about him was the black chinchilla cat which sat in his lap, and which he endlessly stroked.

“I can tell you stories, sure. What stories do you want to know?”

“I’d like to know about the Fenners, back in the days of the Wappo Indians, if that’s convenient.”

Billy Ritchie coughed. “Those were bad days. What do you want to know about them for?”

“A couple of reasons. For one, my name’s Neil Fenner.”

The old man laughed, and coughed some more. “Sounds like as good a reason as any. Tell you what, I’ll strike you a bargain. Get yourself back down the road there and bring me a six-pack of Coors and a pint of Old Crow, and that’s all I ask in return. I can’t tell stories on a dry whistle.”

“You’ve got yourself a deal.”

Ten minutes later, his hair dripping with sweat and his shirt soaked, Neil came back with the liquor. The old man had left the front door ajar, and as Neil walked up the path, the host called, “Walk straight in there, friend. Close it behind you, though. You never know who might come prowling to steal my valuables.”

The little house was dark and cool, and surprisingly clean and well cared-for. Billy Ritchie, without his legs, had made his home his whole world, and it was wallpapered from floor to ceiling with color pictures cut from calendars and magazines. Every room was a patchwork of scenic views snipped from tourist brochures, close-ups of butterflies and flowers, religious scenes and snow scenes, cartoons and classic works of art, all interleaved with center spreads from Penthouse and Hustler.

“Most folks comment on every damn picture except the girls,” said Billy Ritchie. “But what I say is, if an old gent can’t admire some young flesh when he’s past everything but spitting contests, then it’s a sad world.”

The old man was sitting in a shadowy corner of the room, his head silhouetted by the light from the half-closed venetian blinds behind him. Through the slats of the blind, Neil could see a tangled garden, overgrown with wild grass.