Orville’s death had been the beginning of the end. He had died too young, and when his pension had been gutted a few years later and she’d found out how little she’d be getting from Social Security, she’d lost the house. The two of them had never had kids, and she herself had been an only child, so there was no one to take care of her or take her in, and she’d ended up living in a cheap apartment, before a fall on the cement outside the building and a subsequent trip to the hospital had caused her doctors to conspire with social services and the insurance company to put her here. Where she would live out her remaining days until she died.

The despair she felt was nearly overwhelming, and Helene forced herself to concentrate on the television, though in truth she had no interest in the case being “tried” by the TV judge and no clue as to what was happening on the program.

Moments later, there was a knock at her door, a jaunty shave-and-a-haircut rap on the wood. Who could it be? She wasn’t expecting any visitors, and it was far too early for dinner or her medicine delivery. Curious, Helene got up from the couch, walked over and opened the door.

Standing in the corridor was a young well-dressed man who looked like a…

“Banker,” he said, offering her his hand to shake. “Name’s Pickering. Julius Pickering. And I’m with The First People’s Bank. May I come in?” He didn’t wait for an answer but pushed the door open all the way and gently pressed past her. “Nice place you have here.”

She didn’t like having strangers in her room. It made her feel uncomfortable, and she left the door open, hoping he would take the hint and leave.

The man bent down to look at the photo on the end table. “Is this Orville? Good looking man, wasn’t he?”

How did he know her husband’s name?

“What do you want?” Helene asked.

He straightened, turning to face her. “To the point. I like that.” The man smiled, and his teeth were as white as those of men in commercials. “How would you like a job with us, with the bank?”

“A job?” she repeated.

“A job.” He leaned closer. “A job a hell of a lot better than sucking old men’s shriveled dicks.” He laughed heartily. “Come on, Helene. Do you honestly want to service Clement Barnes today at four o’clock? Is that really the way you’d like to spend your tea time?”

How could he know about that?