“You mean the kind of business where somebody pays somebody else a ton of money?”

“If you’re that kind of lawyer, and I don’t know one who’s not.”

He laughed. “What do you need, Bobo?”

“I’ve got to settle Avrum’s affairs.”

“Get you ass down here. I specialize in that.”

“I thought you were a real estate lawyer.”

“That, too. When can you get here?”

“After lunch, say around one.”

“Good. I’ve got an opening.”

“Business that bad, Carter?”

“Bobo, I’m a lawyer,” he answered in his mock Southern accent. “Business ain’t never that bad.”

I spent the morning reviewing Avrum’s papers and interpreted them as he had written in his note: everything had been willed to me, with the instruction that I immediately dispose of it. To others, it would confirm that Avrum was, indeed, insane; I knew that he simply did not want to make decisions, for some of them would have been bitter to him. Better to let someone else do it. To Avrum, dead was dead. Only the mind and the imagination could keep someone alive, as he had kept Amelita Galli-Curci’s voice alive in the Catskills.

Sol Walkman called midmorning to tell me Avrum’s room had been cleaned and that a mood of contrition was evident among the Home’s residents.

“One of them came to see me this morning,” he said. “He told me he knew about some personal items that had been taken from Avrum’s room, and he gave me some names.”

I asked if he had checked the report.

“He was right,” Sol answered. “I knew he was, but they all had the same story: whatever they had, Mr. Feldman had given them as gifts.”

“That’s imaginative,” I said.

“They’re afraid of what may happen to them,” Sol told me.

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Let them keep whatever they’ve got. In a way, I think Avrum would have admired their spunk.”

I could hear relief in Sol’s voice. “It’ll be easier that way.” He paused. “Did you watch television last night?”

“No, I didn’t. Why?”

“You should have. You came across very well.”

“They used some of the interview?” I asked.

“Mostly, that’s what it was. We’ve had a couple of calls about the memorial service.”

“From?” I said.

“I don’t really know.” Sol answered. “The desk took them. Media, I suppose. They were just confirming time and place of the service.”

“I hope they won’t be disappointed,” I replied. “By the way, you’re going to have a delivery from Sammy Merritt. It’s a piece of sculpture that he wanted to dedicate to Avrum.”

“Really?” I knew by Sol’s voice that he had seen Sammy’s work.

“Let’s just say it’s one of those things I had to do, and keep it between us,” I told him.

“I understand,” Sol said.