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making more money than ever. His son assured him that they needed him—untrue, of course—but Leonard found it difficult to summon the energy to get dressed every morning and make the long drive across the river. To please his son, he came into the office on Friday afternoons, mostly just to have lunch with Benjamin like old times. But he didn’t sell, and people asked for him less and less. He’d outlived his customers, and the ones who were still breathing had no need for cars in their nursing homes and retirement communities. Leonard was a museum piece, like the 1955 red Coupe DeVille they kept in the front showroom. In some ways it was a relief not to be needed.
    So he was surprised to find three pink Post-its on his desk waiting for him one Friday afternoon that October. Leonard got out his reading glasses, examined the notes one by one. They all said the same thing:
    Dick Funkhouser called.
    * * *
    WHEN THE WAITRESS delivered the bottle of wine, Leonard examined the label with his glasses perched halfway down his nose. A red wine from Orvieto. The waitress filled a glass and passed it across the table to Terri Funkhouser. Leonard waited for her to take a sip. She gulped. “Well?” he said. “Do you like it?”
    She shrugged. “What’s not to like? It’s a forty-dollar bottle of wine. Of course I like it. Do you expect me to send it back?”
    Terri Funkhouser was husky-voiced, a lifelong smoker like Myra. Her dyed blond hair was pompadoured high above her head; gold baubles dangled from her ears. A handful, Dick Senior used to call her. Leonard was never sure if he meant her ample figure, her disposition, or both.
    The restaurant was called the First and Last Tavern, and Leonard thought that apropos: This would be his first and last evening with Terri Funkhouser. The whole thing had been a trick. Dick Junior had tricked him. When Leonard had returned his calls earlier that day, Dick Junior had proposed a dinner meeting to discuss buying a new car for his mother. I’m off to sell a Cadillac , he’d told Benjamin proudly. (“Drive safely, Dad, okay? Your night vision’s not so great these days.”) But when Leonard arrived at the Funkhouser house to pick them up, Dick Junior claimed an emergency and begged off, saying, You can get Mom home okay, right?
    â€œWhat kind of car are you interested in?” asked Leonard.
    Terri Funkhouser reached into the breadbasket and picked through the rolls. “They’re cold,” she said. She ripped one in half and took a bite. “I’m not interested in cars. That’s Dickie’s idea. He thinks I should have a new one, something with an air bag. He doesn’t trust the Cutlass anymore. He says I drive like a blind person.”
    â€œWhat year is the Cutlass?”
    â€œYou’re asking me dates? You expect me to know the make and model?”
    â€œThey stopped making them in the nineties.”
    She shrugged. “I’m used to it.”
    â€œYou have to keep up with the times. You can never be too safe.”
    Her nails were long, painted a bright red. “Who can afford a new car?”
    â€œNew, used. You’d be surprised at the deals you can get these days. Dick Junior wants the best for you.”
    â€œForget it, Leonard. Dickie’s a dreamer. He can’t afford a lawn mower, let alone a new car, and neither can I. Let’s not talk about cars anymore.”
    â€œFine. That’s fine.”
    â€œDickie’s been after me to call you for a month. He thinks we should be friends.” She emptied her wineglass and held it toward him. Leonard refilled the glass, which was smeared around the rim with lipstick.
    â€œHe wants you to be happy.”
    She laughed, a short raspy sound. “He wants me off his hands.” Again, she gulped the wine, dripping some out of the side of her mouth, and quickly lapped it with her tongue. “He wants me out of my