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certainly don’t go back on offers I make.” The old man cleared his throat with difficulty. “But I’m afraid my appetite isn’t what it should be.” The oxygen continued its subtle hiss. “No doubt something I ate at the reception last night. I hope you don’t mind if I don’t share the meal with you.”
    “Since you’re not feeling well, why don’t we do this another time?”
    “I won’t hear of it. Duncan, bring our young man something to eat. Is there anything you particularly enjoy?”
    “A sandwich is fine. Whatever.”
    “I was thinking of something a little more elaborate than a sandwich.” Packard cocked his wizened head. “If the Dom Pérignon is properly chilled, Duncan, would you bring it out now?”
    Duncan saluted with his Bloody Mary and left.
     
11
     
    THE ROOM BECAME SILENT, except for the hiss of oxygen. The contrast between this conversation and the one the previous evening was more striking. Coltrane decided that Packard not only had worn makeup at the reception but had been energized by some kind of drug. The drug must have put him on edge. That would explain why his present tone was so agreeably the opposite of the one he had used at the reception.
    “I see you brought the collection for me to sign. Which one is it?”
    “
Reflections of the City of Angels
.”
    Packard sounded oddly sad. “That has always been my favorite. How on earth did you find a copy? It’s very rare. And very expensive.”
    “I spent a lot of time haunting rare-book stores.”
    “You certainly must have.” Packard took the oversized book and the fountain pen Coltrane offered him. When he opened the cover, he drew his spindly hand affectionately along a page. “
I
got older. This paper, the finest I could find, remains the same as when the book was printed in 1931. A lifetime ago.” With a nostalgic shake of his head, he uncapped the pen and managed the strength for a solid flourish of a signature.
    “There.” He looked mischievous as he returned the pen and the book. “Now it’s even more rare and more expensive. While you’re holding that pen, I wonder if you’d return the favor and sign something for me.”
    Coltrane didn’t understand. Baffled, he watched Packard reach into a pouch on the side of the chair and bring out a copy of
Through a Lens Darkly
, Coltrane’s only collection of photographs, images from war zones.
    “You
do
know my work,” he said in amazement.
    “A Pulitzer Prize–winning photographer has a way of attracting my attention,” Packard said. “You’re very good.”
    “Thank you.” Coltrane’s voice thickened. “Coming from you, that means a great deal.” He managed to control his hand when he signed the book. “But I wish I’d devoted my career to something besides war and pain. I’ve been having a lot of second thoughts.”
    “The day you’re satisfied with your work is the day you’ll stop being an excellent photographer,” Packard said.
    The old man suddenly coughed.
    The cough increased alarmingly.
    “Is there anything I can . . .”
    “No.” Packard strained to speak through the handkerchief pressed to his mouth.
    Coltrane felt helpless, wanting to pat him on the back but afraid the old man was so frail that he might injure him.
    At last, Packard straightened. “It’s this weather. The chill in the air. I shouldn’t have gone out last night.”
    “Then why did you?” The abrupt voice was Duncan’s. He entered with an ice bucket, a champagne glass, a white towel, and the Dom Pérignon.
    “To remind myself of how blind people are,” Packard said. “The only person who recognized the inferiority of my recent photographs is our young man here.”
    “Or maybe everyone else was being polite.” Duncan popped the champagne open and poured the glass for Coltrane.
    “That still makes Mr. Coltrane the only credible person at the reception.”
    “Except me. I always tell you what
I
think.” Duncan set the bottle into the ice bucket, placing