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guess it was a little, barely conscious lesson learned from my father about the equality and simplicity possible in a modern life so filled with pretense and hierarchy.
    I took my seat and Pelham did his. Phil closed the door behind me. I was neither in the house nor outside it. This realization made me smile.
    “What can I do for you, Mr. McGill?”
    “Nothing.”
    “Why are you here?”
    “To see Cyril Tyler.”
    “About what?”
    “That’s private.”
    “I’m his personal lawyer,” Pelham assured me.
    I had no answer to this statement.
    “Mr. McGill.”
    “Yes, Mr. Pelham?”
    “Why are you here?” His tone hardened just a bit.
    “We’ve already completed that circuit of the merry-go-round,” I said.
    “I am Cyril’s conduit to the world, Mr. McGill. Anyone wanting to speak to him has to go through me.”
    “And here I am.”
    “If you can’t give me a compelling reason why you should see Mr. Tyler, I will have to turn down your request.”
    I stood up, reached into my back pocket, and produced my decades-old, fat, red-leather wallet. From this I took a business card that had my real name and number on it.
    I placed the card on the edge of the white desk and smiled.
    “You tell Mr. Tyler that if he ever wants to talk to me he can use the number on the card.”
    I turned and almost took the first step.
    “Hold on, Mr. McGill.”
    “Yes?”
    “We are not the kind of people that you can bully.”
    I turned around to see that Pelham had also risen to his feet.
    “We?” I asked.
    “What do you want?”
    “If I have to turn around again I’m walking all the way out of here,” I said. “If you want to stop me you’re welcome to try.”
    My temper still needed tending.
    Pelham tried to smile, failed at the attempt, and then said, “Take the door behind me. Walk down the hall in front of you until you get to a cream-colored door.”

7
    IT WAS LIKE any hallway in any suburban ranch house—nearly. The ceiling was too low and the walls too close, like most American dwellings, but the hall was longer than usual. The rugs seemed to be composed of some kind of pale fur, and the claustrophobic walls were hot pink in color, accented by a lime-green trim.
    Now and again, to this searing background a huge steel painting was secured. Up close you could see both the subtlety and the brutality of the work. They were informed predominantly by earth tones, like great rotting swamps made into human subjects by some capricious, primitive god. I liked the paintings and felt a certain kinship to the artist. I didn’t stop to appreciate Chrystal’s work, however. There were other pressing concerns on my mind.
    Because I was having anger issues I tried to bring my thoughts to a calmer place in preparation for my meeting with a man who might be a murderer. There wasn’t time to do a walking meditation so I decided to think of someone who gave me the feeling of tranquility. I realized, or maybe re-realized, that there are few islands of serenity among my relations.
    I thought of Twill, but was reminded of his bloated bank account lying there like a fat grub on dead flesh. There was Katrina, my wife of twenty-four years, who was having an affair with my other son’s school chum. Thinking of Katrina reminded me of my ex-girlfriend, Aura—I definitely didn’t want to think about her. Finally I achieved my quest for equilibrium by considering Harris Vartan. At least he was clear and stable. He was my Uncle Harry, asking for a simple favor from the son of a good friend.
    As I came to the promised cream-colored door I decided I would find William Williams, just because the gangster was the only one I could think of who didn’t trouble me.
    I knocked.
    “Come on in,” a rough voice called from the other side. There was no discernible accent, but the words seemed to yearn for one.
    I pushed open the door and came upon what I can only say was a shit-brown room. The curved lines of the huge mahogany desk made it seem