She reached for a key from a rack behind the desk. “Yeah, well, they were old. They died. Everybody died. This is a ghost town, Bobo, or haven’t you noticed? Three more hotels closed last year.” She handed me the key.

“Sad,” I said.

“Look, where did you see the last McDonald’s on the way up?” she asked. “This side of Kingston, right? Up a few miles, maybe. That should tell you. You don’t find a McDonald’s, you find a ghost town. People can piss and moan all they want about those fast-food emporiums, but where they are is where life is. Believe me. If you ain’t got the Golden Arches, they’re about to shovel dirt over your ass.”

“I guess you’re right,” I said. “Never thought about it.”

She looked at me tenderly. “You know, Bobo, every time you come here, you talk about how it used to be. Those days are gone. You’ve got some kind of weird idea that when you’re here, it’s going to be the way you remember it. No way, Bobo. No way.”

I was embarrassed that she was so right.

I asked, to change the subject, “How’s Sammy?”

“Sammy? Sammy’s Sammy. He went to Kingston this morning to pick up a block of marble, or granite, or something. I think he’s over his Brancusi stage.”

I smiled. A year earlier, during my last visit with Avrum, Sammy was convinced that his medium was wood. He had babbled incessantly about Constantin Brancusi.

“He’ll be glad to see you,” added Lila. “He’s got a few tons of new stuff. Rented the old Ellis Drug Store down the street to put it in. You remember him, Bobo? Arch Ellis? He died earlier this year.”

“He did? I’m sorry to hear that. I liked him a lot.”

“Yeah, me, too. Anyway, Sammy’s beating the hell out of his rock collection in there now,” Lila said. She leaned across the registration desk. I could smell her too sweet perfume. She whispered, “Tell me, Bobo, is Sammy any good? I mean, is he any good at all?”

I could feel myself swallow, which is something I must do before I lie. “He’s not bad. I think he may be a little too impatient.”

Lila cackled a laugh. “He’s a mental case, and we both know it.” Then: “Are you having lunch with us?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“I like brave men,” Lila replied. “Turns me on.”

In my room, I put away my clothes and sat on the bed and opened the envelope that Avrum had left for me.

There was a single, folded sheet of paper and a second, smaller envelope. Across the front of the second envelope, written by Avrum’s shaking hand, was a message: Avrum Feldman’s kaddish. To be opened six days after his death. A.F.