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with. Style. It means not that tie.”
    “Here’s a word for you, sir: Daniel Rose.”
    For the first time in our short acquaintance, Horace T. Grant was close to speechless. But only close. He looked at me, he looked away, he took a swig of coffee and winced at the taste. And then he said, “We talking flowers?”
    “No, little boys. Daniel Rose is my client, as you very well know. An anonymous report was made to child welfare about him. I figure it was you who did the reporting. You might pretend to be a hard act, but you cared enough to make the report, and you cared enough to keep up with the proceedings. That’s why you were there in the courthouse, that’s how you knew my name. You saw me searching for his mother in the waiting room.”
    “Looking every inch the fool, you were.”
    “So I’d appreciate your telling me what you can about the boy’s situation.”
    “See, here’s the thing about anonymous reports that might have escaped your sterling perspicacity, Mr. Carl. They’re anonymous. That’s another word, like style, that you must have no idea the meaning of.”
    “So why would the person who made the report want to remain anonymous?”
    “Where’d you grow up, boy?”
    “Philadelphia.”
    “Now you’re lying to me. Dumb and dishonest, no wonder you’re a lawyer.”
    “Well, to be honest—”
    “Don’t strain yourself on my behalf.”
    “I grew up just north of the city, in a little place called Hollywood.”
    “The suburbs.” He exhaled dismissively. “A wasteland for the congenitally unfit. I could tell just by looking at you that you was dumber than an ear of corn. They grow them stupid out there, don’t they? Boys from the suburbs can’t understand what it’s like in the city, how close we all live, one next to the other. How delicate are the relationships between neighbors.”
    “So you’re scared.”
    “Don’t be a pinhead. You seen what I seen in this world, it’s not scared you get. But maybe Mr. Anonymous is simply cautious.”
    “All right. And maybe who he’s cautious about is Daniel’s mother’s boyfriend.”
    “Listen, fool. Whoever made that report might not know for sure what is going on, might not have any proof of anything. There might simply be concern, a cautious concern.”
    “Based on what?”
    “Neighborhood history. The dramatis personae. You know what that means, or is them words too big for you, too? Well, I’ll help you out. Dramatis personae. It means if you’re so damn interested, you ought to go visit the boy for yourself.”
    “I intend to,” I said. “But that won’t be so easily accomplished. Apparently every time an appointment is set up, the mother isn’t home.”
    “Well, that pretty social worker, each time she shows up, might be going to the wrong house.”
    “The mother takes the son somewhere and hides to avoid the visit, is that it?”
    “Don’t be getting any thoughts that you are suddenly some genius, now. Remember your limitations.”
    “And you might know where she goes to hide?”
    “I know a lot more than you’ll ever fit in that cement head of yours.”
    “That I believe,” I said, smiling into his scowl. “Can I get you something else, sir?”
    “Yes, you can. It’s the least you can do, an ungrateful suburban pinhead like yourself. But no more pastry like childhood diseases for me, no chickenpox muffin or measles muffin for me. And no mumps muffin neither, you understand. Next thing you know, my cheeks will be swelled and my thing will fall off, and then I’d be no better off than you.”
    I bought him another muffin, bran because I thought he could use the fiber, and then I sat and listened to his insults until he decided it was time to give me an address.

8
    I don’t usually care much about the package in which money comes. Give it to me in a fancy embossed envelope, a brown paper bag, a check that doesn’t bounce, give it to me any way you want, so long as you give it. But I have to admit that