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the dusty little shop. And Moe and he would drive back up to Rye, in Westchester. Moe would drop him off at his house and he’d bounce up the front steps, open the door, holler his hellos to Eva, his housekeeper.
    He’d trot up the stairs, maybe lift some weights, or run on the treadmill, just to loosen up the muscles that were stiff from sitting behind a desk all day. Arthur was a large man, six feet two, with a barrel chest, sturdy, long legs, and a shoulder span a weight lifter would’ve been proud of. His body had always required physical activity.
    Jeez, he couldn’t imagine how people spent their lives behind a desk like that. He’d have just shot himself in the head if he’d spent his life cooped up in some office. He needed to be out in fresh air.
    All right, so he might have been running around with a gun in his hand half the time, but at least he got to see the sunlight. And his hours were set to his needs, not to some lousy manager’s timetable.
    So Arthur would stretch out his stiff muscles and then he’d shower, shave, and most evenings hit Jack’s Bar for a drink.
    Jack’s Bar had been a landmark in Rye. It had opened in 1951, and they blessedly hadn’t changed the decor. It reminded him of the bars of his youth. And it was filled with some of the more lively if not shady characters of the town. And once in a while a woman would be at the bar and he’d buy her drinks, maybe have a few laughs for a couple of weeks or the night.
    But Jack’s had closed two years ago, and was now a video store. None of the other bars he went to seemed right. They either had blasting garbage the kids called music, so his head throbbed after ten minutes, or they were that kind of air-fern bar where people ordered nothing but Perrier with lime or white wine spritzers. He’d lost interest in finding a new place to go to.
    Arthur stared catatonically at the scratched dark wood desktop in his office and gave a sad exhale. Because tonight he was going to do exactly what he had done the night before, and the night before that, and the night before that. Moe was going to drive him back to his big empty house in Rye and he was going give a tired yell to Eva, then tromp into the living room. And he’d make himself a bourbon, turn on the idiot box, and he’d lose himself in the same shows. Eva would silently place a tray of dinner in front of him and look concerned the way she did when she took the time to notice and was not rushing out the door to pick up one of her kids or something. And when he’d hear her bustle through the hallway and the door slam closed after her, he’d give a little sigh at how it would be to have someplace to rush off to, or people who needed you.
    He was rarely invited to his son’s house. Only tolerated for holidays or special occasions. Moe’s wife, Doreen, had never cared for him and, unbelievably, had told him once that she didn’t think he could be trusted around his own grandchildren. As if he were some kind of pervert or something!
    And he’d shot off his mouth, informing her that yes, she was right to be frightened, as he couldn’t stand the little dears anyway, which was an utter lie, but he felt he had to say something to the bitch.
    So he’d sit alone in his living room and sooner or later he’d turn off the lights and sit in the dark, watching old movies or boxing if he could find it. And he’d drift off, and half the time he’d wake to the sound of Eva arriving in the morning for her day of work.
    There was the sound of a throat clearing, and Arthur looked up from the desk.
    â€œYou ready to go, Pop?”
    â€œWell, what are you waiting for?” he snapped gruffly.
    He watched Moe turn and pull on a windbreaker at the same time. Moe had good shoulders and well-formed legs. But his son was soft around the middle from what he called “the good life.” Arthur had been hard as a rock when