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His eyes were a watery gray.
    Netsuke squirmed devilishly beneath Honeyman, and Erlkonig said, “Uh, if you wouldn’t mind.…”
    “Oh, yeah, sure. Sorry.”
    Honeyman pushed himself up into a kneeling position beside the mattress.
    “Thanks,” said Erlkonig. He discovered a pair of Jockey shorts and skinned them on, still lying down. Netsuke, meanwhile, had donned a T-shirt.
    The light and noise had drawn a crowd. Honeyman looked up to find himself the focus of a circle of curious faces: a majority of the permanent Beer Nuts.
    Ped Xing, the only man in the world to profess both Orthodox Judaism and Zen monkhood. Long side curls contrasted rather sharply with his shaven pate.
    Hilario Fumento, unpublished writer with a curious artistic philosophy, his pockets filled with the materials of his trade: call slips and pencil stubs filched from the public library.
    Beatbox, a Hispanic fellow currently employed as a Balloon-O-Gram deliveryman, and also currently wearing his work clothes: a complete clown suit and white face.
    Leather ’n’ Studs, the inseparable lesbian couple.
    Hy Rez, resident hacker and phone phreak, who provided the Beer Nuts with essential communication services.
    Prominent among the missing was Nerfball, the one person Honeyman wanted to see.
    “So,” said Erlkonig, who was as much of a leader as the Beer Nuts allowed, “what brings you here, my moll?”
    “Nerfball was supposed to open up the store for me today, and he didn’t. Do you know where he is?”
    The Beer Nuts burst out laughing.
    “I don’t get it,” admitted Honeyman, when the noise had died down. “What’s so funny?”
    Erlkonig sought to explain. “Well, you know how Nerf believes in that dumb nasal irrigation of his. Snorting saltwater all day long to clear his sinuses, honking like a sick goose at all hours of the night. Well, this morning he goes to do it in the dark, only to find someone’s spiked his water bucket with Tabasco sauce.”
    “Ouch,” sympathized Honeyman.
    “So now he’s off somewhere sulking. I suspect you can track him down by the sniffles.”
    Someone handed Honeyman a flashlight. “Thanks,” he said, and stood.
    “Bye, Rory,” said Netsuke, and giggled.
    Honeyman shook his head wearily. Life was always tossing your past straight in your face.
    Nerfball was huddled in a far corner of the brewery’s upper floors. Honeyman could hear him talking to himself from some distance away and, not wishing to intrude on his personal soliloquy, called out in warning.
    “Hey, Nerf, it’s me, Rory.”
    “What do you want?” whined Nerfball.
    The flashlight beam revealed Nerfball sitting under an old oak desk. His pudgy form completely filled the capacious knee-well. His nose was inflamed. Incredibly lazy, Nerfball possessed one talent to an astonishing degree: he could make sandwiches better, faster, and more economically than anyone else Honeyman had ever seen. A sandwich crafted by Nerfball emerged from beneath his flashing knife as a thing of beauty, guaranteed to draw repeat customers. It was this salient skill that Honeyman now had to cajole him to employ.
    Squatting to make eye contact with the victim of Tabasco poisoning, Honeyman said, “Come help me with the store, Nerf. I need you.”
    “Why should I? You never pay me anymore.”
    Nerf had Honeyman there. Cash flow had been pitiful lately. The rent had just been hiked a zillion percent, thanks to the gentrification of the city. (Honeyman himself was not a “B and B,” as those “born and bred” in Hoboken called themselves. But he had been here so long, since Hoboken was just a joke, that his conscience was clean.) And a McDonald’s had recently opened up in competition a few blocks away. Honeyman was barely scraping by.
    Honeyman thought desperately. “Listen, I will pay you, I swear.”
    Nerfball sneered. “Yeah, I bet. With what? Funny money?”
    Honeyman opened his mouth to deny the charge, then was struck by the futility of it all.