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very quickly.
    Robert went into the hallway. A passing nurse looked at him with what might have been sympathy. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes.
    3
    There weren’t very many people at the funeral, of course. Robert hadn’t even told Maureen anything about when or where the brief service was going to be held. He didn’t want her hovering.
    It wasn’t until he surveyed the small group gathered around the grave that Robert realized something: He had no friends, not really. The sudden realization surprised him a little, because he hadn’t felt such a lack in his life. Between work and a parade of women and Andy in the hospital to visit every day, there seemed to be plenty to think about.
    Randolph was there, no doubt motivated by some sense of professional obligation. A couple of the nurses and aides who had taken care of Andy showed up, too, and that was okay. The big surprise, as far as Robert was concerned, was that Wayne Brown was there. He must have seen the short obit in the Times . Brown, a hefty black man in a three-piece suit, had played on the college team with Andy. He had, in fact, caught that perfect game. Now, as it turned out, he sold insurance, which maybe explained why he read the death notices so carefully.
    When the service was over, Brown suggested to him that maybe a drink was in order. It could be sort of a final tribute to Andy. Robert couldn’t see anything wrong with that idea, so he followed Brown four blocks to Mike’s, a dark, cool tavern that was nearly empty at that time of the day. They both carried boilermakers to a back booth.
    â€œThere were some nice flowers at the grave,” Brown said when they had settled in.
    â€œSome of the people I do business with sent them,” Robert said. He downed the shot in one gulp.
    â€œWhat business are you in these days?”
    â€œDebt collection,” he replied shortly. That was what it said on his income-tax return.
    Brown just nodded.
    Two youngish women in almost identical gray suits came in and sat at the booth just opposite them. Each carried a leather briefcase and each was drinking white wine. They paid no attention to Robert and Brown, instead launching directly into a discussion of points and prime rates.
    Brown sipped beer carefully. “I was around the majors for a couple years,” he said. “And I never saw anybody better than the Wizard. He could have gone all the way, you know that, don’t you?”
    â€œI know it.”
    The women laughed suddenly. Robert wondered what the hell was so funny about interest rates.
    Brown sighed. “Let me tell you something, Bob. I’m a religious man, a deacon in the church and all, but sometimes I still can’t figure out God’s holy plan. Like why things had to go the way they did for somebody like Andy.”
    Robert smiled a little, not at what Brown had said, exactly, or even at Brown himself, but at the top of the table. “I don’t think that God—even if there really is one—had anything to do with this.”
    Brown obviously wasn’t happy with that expression of doubt, but he let it pass without saying anything.
    The women weren’t talking business anymore. Their new topic of conversation was someone named Edward. Both of them, it seemed, had slept with him. On different occasions.
    Robert ordered a second shot; it arrived and he downed it as quickly as he had the first. “I know who’s to blame for Andy being dead,” he said. “And someday he’ll pay.”
    â€œRevenge won’t bring Andy back.”
    Robert didn’t say anything. Something about the absent Edward’s sexual habits ignited another bout of laughter and the women ordered more wine.
    â€œWell,” Brown said finally, “it’s just sad. Real sad.”
    Robert raised a hand to summon the bartender again.
    It was very late by the time Robert left the bar. Brown was long gone, having tried but