She tore it off, jotted down a number and handed it to me. “I have your number from your card.”“Right. What hours do you work at your lab?”“...ight to four-thirty. Give me a call after six, tomorrow. We can talk then.”“Mae -- I’d rather we could talk in person. I don’t like talking on the phone. How about I pick you up at six and we can go out for dinner? Then, maybe we can come back to my place and talk. How does that sound?”“All right, Len. Tomorrow at six.”“I’ll pick you up at Mama’s.”“Fine,. That is the word he uses." He held the letter toward me, leaned forward over a yard of polished mahogany and pointed at a word. His cuff links appeared to be small gold coins. "Right there, detriment." All I could see was the MLB letterhead and a scrawled signature. I wondered if he signed all his letters "Bud." Up to you," I said, resisting the urge to swallow the lump in my throat or cough it up and spit. The ghost of Christmas past was about to visit, I feared. I could hear the chains. More

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