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under the portico. “Let’s go, girl.”
    He wore the same zoot suit nicely accessorized with a bright pink art deco tie four-inches wide. He’d forsaken the Kleenex boxes for penny loafers but had forgotten to comb his hair which stuck out at odd angles.
    I took a seat in the cab, about to reluctantly sign on as gatekeeper for a hell of a lot of money. I felt like the spawn of a post-apocalyptic Hollywood flick, a dehumanized crunchy wrapped in a London Fog raincoat with cot-head, mascara smudges, and crusties in my eyes.
    Hic and I de-cabbed at the Thirty-Ninth Federal Bank. Wobbling behind him I was accosted by a bag lady pushing a grocery cart. She handed me a soggy one-dollar bill. I shook my head and pushed it back in her palm. The ego boost I needed.
    The bank was a 1920’s relic with all the warmth veined marble generates.
    Hic’s attorney Robert Walker floated toward us. He was a gray-on-gray man, the kind of fellow who would fade into the wallpaper in a boardroom. Without shaking my extended hand or making eye contact with me, he greeted Hic. Perhaps I had become gray-on-gray?
    Walker led us into a small conference room. He eased the door closed and took a seat at the head of the table. I dropped down next to Hic. The lawyer spun the combination lock on an ostrich-skin briefcase and took out a sheaf of papers. He stacked them in front of Hic.
    Every orifice on my body itched with unseen dirties. I impatiently watched the testator study the pages as if it were his last will and testament, possibly because it was. He slid a paper to me tapping the bold-typed clause naming me the Executrix in charge of standing in front of the train called probate.
    I swallowed hard and nodded. A promise is a promise.
    Hic insisted I raise my right hand and swear to abide by the terms of his will. I doubted it was standard procedure but I went along. Attorney Walker found something fascinating under his thumbnail.
    The door opened with a quiet whoosh and three bankers waddled into the room to witness the signing.
    “You might be slipping me some disappearing ink,” Hic said to Walker brushing aside the pen the lawyer offered. He fumbled in his jacket pocket and pulled out a Montblanc fountain pen and with shaky hands removed the cap. He was deteriorating. I blotted a crusty tear from my left eye.
    Hic initialed the bottom of each page and then scrolled his two-inch high signature on the final pages.
    The witnesses witnessed and the notary noted. The lawyer put the will in a dark green folder, handed it to Hic, snapped his attaché case closed, and left the room. Not even a curt goodbye. Maybe he thought I was responsible for this can of pickled worms.
    A smart-looking brunette in a navy blue business suit led Hic and me to the safe deposit room. Hic put the will in the box, locked it and slipped the key on a gold chain.
    “Turn around,” he barked then placed the chain around my neck and snapped the clasp. “Don’t take this off until I get back from… you know where.”
    I touched his hand as it slipped down my shoulder. It hurt my heart to imagine I would never see him again. A grinding rusty wheel, Hic was nonetheless an important part of my life.
    We left the bank in silence. So many emotions, so little time. Hic squeezed my arm, nodded, and got into a cab. I stood on the curb as he rolled down the window. “I’ll be watching for you, kid.” He saluted and then settled back in the seat.
    With my heart aching I hailed a taxi for the airport and began looking over my shoulder as a flock of worry-vultures swept in. I was the un-pregnant executrix for a legal train wreck and involved in a mess that included two sitting mummies, a Columbo-wannabee, and a dead Indian. Had it been only eighteen hours? Some people can go for days without murders and promises to dying friends.
    The Miami-bound plane was in the air long enough for my inflight Bloody Mary to wear off and my edginess to return. I fiddled with the key to Hic’s