All Stars Die

Contents

The First Encounter

Noon ’til Midnight

A Good Friday

Intermezzo

A Short Sunday

A Monumental Monday

More Flights Before Landing

The Long Week

Interregnum

Reassessment

Commitment

Stars Are Born

Dark Energy

About the Author

For M, E and M

Three women my youth did not well serve

The First Encounter

While deep in his sleep, all the physical tension and inherent emotions of the new dream seemed frighteningly immediate, its meaning distant, ambiguous…

The little boy, no more than six or seven, is desperately climbing toward the top of the giant telescope, grasping hold with both arms and legs. The kid is me for god’s sake, Spence realized. It looks like Palomar…yeah, of course it is. Way below him in the well, a woman rushes in and shouts: I’ve been looking all over for you. What are you doing up there, you silly boy?

It’s mother…Miranda. As she looked more than thirty years ago… so beautiful. But the boy, red-faced and determined, continues to struggle ever-so-slowly up the smooth metal casing toward the parting dome and star-filled sky beyond. Where do you think you’re going? Come down this minute, do you hear?!

He looks down for an instant, loses his grip and begins a long, terrifying fall.

The abrasive jangle of his hotel wake-up call ended this particular nightmare, which had been preceded by several others during the past month. His pillow was again damp from sweat. He couldn’t recall a single image from any of the disturbing dreams; he only knew they were interludes he could live without and hoped they’d soon pass. He welcomed a sound sleep.

Parting the drapes, he let the morning light flood the fifth-floor Plaza luxury single. Wonder what this hole-in-the-wall set Columbia back, he mused, concurrently embracing the vista it afforded of Central Park in its mid-autumnal glory. A tap at the door led him to let in Room Service with the pre-ordered breakfast of orange juice, a croissant and pot of coffee. He blanched at the bill, quickly computed the proper tip, signed the tab and thanked the server. No wonder tuition has skyrocketed, he noted with a mixture of sadness and satisfaction. So much for Phil’s constant taunting him about his ignorance of the economics of everyday life.

Checking out of the hotel less than an hour later, the slightest pang of guilt gave way to simple curiosity as he reckoned what his ten hours in Manhattan, seven of them asleep, had cost the school so far. Way more than a day’s pay for no return! He dared not add on the Boston airfare, late night cab from and, this evening, back to La Guardia, for which he was, along with other incidentals e. g. meals, to invoice it. He had to shake his head at the infinite number of expenses accruing to today’s higher education.

Rush hour was at its peak. He scurried about the leaf-covered corner of Fifth Avenue and Fifty-ninth in a futile effort to grab a taxi. Experienced locals or traveling business execs invariably got to emptying vehicles a second before him. The hansom cabs across the street gave him a moment’s pause, but he remembered hearing the horses were licensed only for the Park.. No, if he was going to make it in time, he’d have to trek to the Broadway subway.

Before setting off he paused briefly to listen to the scatological jabbering of a homeless woman into the phone receiver of an outdoor booth. For some reason she didn’t strike him as insane.

He was grateful for the crisp morning air. It meant he might survive the hike and ride without becoming soot-covered and unkempt by the time he reached the campus. Yesterday’s shirt, socks and underwear, along with his toiletries, were stuffed in his backpack; he didn’t even take his briefcase on this trip. His dark brown tweed jacket and grey flannels, one of three similar J. Press outfits he reserved for formal lectures, remained wrinkle-free while the sky blue Boss shirt Miranda gave him last year for his fortieth, set off by a solid maroon silk tie provided neat contrast, he thought, to his beloved, timeless Ivy League attire. He’d meant to get a haircut before coming down but never made it to Gus’. He once again gave thanks to his dad for passing on the follicle gene that produced soft brown curls which, after a shower, could be hand-shaped in seconds into a respectable coiffure that disguised their over-length.

Then, as happened more often than not, the flux and flow of the human condition engulfing him vanished from view as he became completely absorbed by a complex equation he’d been trying to solve for weeks. It could provide a quantum leap in what was his current calling. Obsession, almost. For Spencer King was among a modest band of astrophysicists now exploring a recent cosmological mystery, a mystery enhanced by the name coined for it: dark energy.

Although only nine a. m., an audience in the hundreds comprised of both students and faculty, filled the tiered desks in the century-old Pupin Hall’s largest lecture hall, to hear his talk, How Far Are We, Really? Working from a few sheets of notes, Spence, with ease and a humorous aside here and there, first gave his personal assessment of what presently could be considered factual - we’re pretty sure - new knowledge gleaned from both the Hubble and earth-based sources, as of this mid-October. He went on to raise questions about and pose possible answers to ongoing investigations regarding wave motion.

But most his time was spent, to the delight of the assembly, diagraming and explaining a half-dozen elaborate formulae that lately had or had yet to be proven out. Turning once again back to the assembly from the large blackboard: …So, if these nucleosynthesis calculations are correct - and some’ve held up for a few years - then omega, the ratio of the average density to the rho critical, is 0.1 or minus 0.05…Ah, ladies and gentleman, I see I’m about to get the hook from Professor Goodwin…

A collective sigh of disappointment, especially female, coursed the hall.

To summarize the prevailing wisdom on this monumental issue on this given day…, putting his notes back in jacket pocket, "if our ideas about phase transitions are right, then the large scale geometry of spacetime might very well have zero curvature…

Now, I’d like to thank the department again for inviting me to give this year’s Krasker Lecture. A great honor. And thanks to all of you for turning out for it…

As the applause began to build, an afterthought caused him to hold up his hand.

Charlotte Grace, part of the standing-room group behind the top row held her breath. Good Christ, no more tech talk of the spheres, she prayed. Ninety minutes had been enough, although he apparently was the equivalent of a rock star to everyone else! Not Chinese torture quite, but she’d never been in the presence of a group of fellow Americans for whom this esoteric language was like street talk, to whom all the Greek letters, math symbols and numbers he splashed on the board thrilled one and all, while they only intimidated her. She now regretted never taking a course in physics, although she’d given his book and some articles for the layman a quick read in preparation for this assignment; she thought she’d grasped the essentials yet he hardly alluded to them during this ungodly early hour - ‘The Big Bang’ or ‘unified theory’ wasn’t mentioned once! She felt like a total idiot amongst the roomful of precocious youths and their mentors.

She deduced one reason the movie with Russell Crowe about a math genius was successful was that it wisely avoided asking the viewer to follow the specifics of his work. This wunderkind’s ‘talk’ alone required an antidote of a load of Tylenol. On the other hand, the guy does have some kind of charisma. Crowe’s a wonderful actor but not her type as a….desirable male, but this King did have sex appeal, despite or because of his disarming boyish good looks, but it could hardly be an angle in the article her editor was expecting. She relaxed a little when she remembered she had to deliver only fifteen hundred words with the pictures.

Sorry, he went on, " I….I’d like to leave you with a little anecdote that may be relevant…When I got to my hotel last night, I passed a woman at a pay phone - a bag-lady - screaming her head off to someone at the other end. This morning she was at the same phone, shouting the same curses. It finally struck me she was speaking to a dead phone. There was no one on the other end.

Now, what are we doing here in astrophysics but calling the universe every day and getting back nothing but some noisy microwaves? Are we any less mad than she is? For those of us who live so much in our heads, I’m thinking - watch out. Other people. We have to know about our fellows as much as we need to know how we happened here in the first place.

And then, with an embarrassed grin: And, of course, know ourselves. Certainly the most complex, baffling equation of all… Thanks!

Phil Goodwin exchanged a perplexed glance with several colleagues as they arose with the rest of the house to award the guest speaker with a rousing ovation rarely heard in this venue.

Charlotte’s applause was muted. She’d unexpectedly been both moved and confused by his final reflections.

By the time she had navigated the campus labyrinth to the Faculty Club, the academics, mainly male, had already filled the modest lounge assigned the post-lecture coffee klatsch. Her entrance was immediately noticed by a number of the physicists, of both sexes, not only for being a stranger in this setting but because her stately movement and figure commanded attention. It was attired in a beige cashmere turtle-neck sweater, navy-blue blazer of the same fine material, a short pleated charcoal-grey skirt, with her shapely legs partly hidden by mid-calf leather boots - a stylish wardrobe seldom seen as far uptown as 116th Street. Her striking visage, however, usually raised eyebrows in any part of the city: straight black hair, falling below her shoulders, framed seemingly make-up free features which included clear, pale skin, high cheekbones, a straight nose bordering on the sharp, a wide mouth, full lips and alert, almond-shaped indigo eyes.

While not oblivious to her admired, oft-envied looks, she’d lived with them too long to let their transitory impression on others ever impede whatever was her own druther of the moment. Despite the oak-paneled room’s modest size, it took her a while to spot her quarry. There, in a far corner, Spencer King was engaged in an impassioned dialogue with a younger man whose enthusiasm exceeded his elder’s. She paused several feet from them so as not to interrupt, instantly catching the gist of their excited exchange - they’d agreed their mutual theory about some aspect of micowave movement was close to the mark - without actually comprehending a word. After standing there for minute or so, an involuntary chortle escaped her lips. What a rare treat to be totally ignored by two virile guys!

Spence heard the odd sound and turned toward her. She thrust out her hand.

I’m sorry, Dr. King. I’m Charlotte Grace. Something struck my funny bone…please forgive me! I came to the lecture to get a leg up on our interview…

Interview? What interview? I’m afraid–

–On Friday? I’m flying up to see you for the–

–Oh, yes. Friday morning. Almost forgot…didn’t connect…

He smiled broadly, then warmly shook her hand.

"My apologies… And this is Tim Doyle, Miss Grace. My counterpart at Columbia."

Come on, Spence. Let’s not be ridiculous!

So, was my sermon from the Mount of any value to you?

To be frank, I still don’t know a quark from a neutrino from a granola bar. You could’ve been speaking Albanian.

Spence laughed. Tim grinned shyly.

It’s a rarefied atmosphere, that’s for sure. I planned to become a race-car driver - how’d I get into this?

Spence patted his back.

He’s a superstring theory jockey full time right now, a Brian Greene disciple, so he deserves our sympathy.

Ah, I forgot to tell you Brian sends his apologies. Giving a seminar in Chicago…

Well, we have Miss Grace instead. A good trade-off I’d say…

Very kind of you to say, Dr. King. I hope we can come up with an informative, edgy piece - one that’ll make sense to ignoramuses like me without insulting your peers.

I can only try. How about some coffee? Cream and–

–Black, please…God bless you.

Pressing his way toward the buffet, Spence greeted and thanked several colleagues before his arm was taken by a slouched, gray-haired friend.

Splendid presentation, Spencer. God damn great, in fact.

Thanks, Horace. Get my notes yet? I had Alice mail them last–

–Received, appreciated and being incorporated. Lazlo and I want you to share authorship with us.

Nonsense. I just tied up a loose end or two.

It’s the quality of them, not the quant–

"–Horace, don’t. As a favor. I’ve published so much the past two years, one of my assistants called me the Stephen King of outer space!"

Cocky student, isn’t he?

The shoe fits…

"Well, you are a prince at the least…OK., I’ll tell Lazlo…"

Just as he left the table with his refill the space was taken by Phil Goodwin, Spence’s contemporary with a similar tall, slim athletic build but without the full head of hair.

It’s about time. Where the heck’ve you been?

Where do you think? Back at the hall fending off your groupies, half of whom wanted to know if it was possible to transfer to MIT.

Oh, come off it.

Well, one sweet young thing did have the gall to inquire…By the way here’s your payola.

He handed a Spence an envelope.

"My…? Geez, forgot all about it. Thanks. Thank the Krasker people, will you?

Phil had to wince, not for the first time, at the cavalier behavior; no one other than Spence in his circle would actually have forgotten about the substantial honorarium due him. How the hell did he function and prevail in Twenty-first Century physics, which was as competitive as computer programming or show business? His genius for one thing of course, he sighed, together with his unquestioning confidence in his calling; and he couldn’t begrudge Spence’s free-lance status either, with no long-term academic affiliation like his. While Spence devoted himself to theoretical research, Phil found full-time teaching gratifying and the paid breaks allowed him to pursue his personal bent for the mechanical side, optics being the bent. Besides he had a family to support, while Spence was still free as a bird. He did envy his colleague’s single status at times, but also pitied him for being the quintessential distracted scientist who seldom thought to partake of earthly pleasures.

He lowered his voice: Hey, what was that routine you pulled at the end all about? The bag-lady and getting to know our–?

–That was weird, Phil. No idea what made me spout on like that. Did I sound like an ass?

"Not the point. You’re not thinking about switching from astronomy to psychiatry by any chance, are you?’

You’re kidding?!

I never know with you, buddy.

…Here, take this coffee with yours will you, and I’ll introduce to a new star in our galaxy. But behave. None of your come-hither patter if you possibly can hold back…

With his own cup and saucer in one hand and a brioche in the other, he lead Phil to Tim and Charlotte. She was introduced to the professor, took the proffered coffee and, after chit-chat, was asked by him, sardonically she thought, Why would the London Observer be interested in this egghead?

I’m curious too. Didn’t think to ask, Spence inserted.

Apparently your book is doing better there than it did here.

It is?

Phil shook his head: Amazing…not in Greene’s league yet to be sure, but he also seems to have a talent for washing the unwashed… Oh, by the way, our Columbia star asked me to–

"–Tim told me…Did you read his book too, Miss Grace - The Elegant Universe"?

’Fraid I haven’t had a chance…nice title though, isn’t it?

Do you specialize in science writing?, Phil asked, finding her name familiar.

Hardly… I’m your all-purpose journalist, with a penchant for non-mainstream subjects.

"Wait! You did the wonderful piece in the Times Magazine a couple weeks ago on that State prosecutor….?

…Eliot Spitzer. Yes. My only legal beagle so far.

And the pictures too, right?

I’m flattered you noticed.

That’s the guy who’s nailing some of those corporate crooks, yes?, Tim added.

Have you been following any those incredible scams, Spence?, Phil moaned. Want to puke when I hear about them.

I…I did hear about that Enron thing. Were there others?

"A few, a few… How about our President and his scapegoating Hussein? You are aware of our impending war, aren’t you?", as he put a brotherly arm about Spence’s shoulders.

Vaguely…I’m afraid, Miss Grace, Professor Goodwin has the luxury of time, thanks to his lucrative sinecure with the University, to watch TV and read the Times from front to back. Keeping up with the literature in my hyperactive field, when not writing down my own humble mumbo-jumbo on planes or at temporary dwellings, fill the days and nights. Admittedly, it makes for a doltish don.

And also admit, you who must have a fortune socked away since you don’t own a car, house or decent pair of shoes, that your interest in the world around you is minimal. Oh, excuse me, except for that crazy lady on the telephone!

Is this joshing between colleagues or true hostility?, Charlotte bluntly asked Tim, tempering her directness with a natural smile.

The former, Miss Grace, trust me, as Spence put his arm over Phil’s. We go back to grad days at CalTech.

Was Kip Thorne your mentor?

He sure was. Hey, how did you–?

–I’m in the dark about deep space, yes, but I’m aware of some of the who’s who here on terra firma.

Then you should know that Phil was also a disciple of Feynman, the great problem solver, Tim beamed, "while the legendary Allan Sandage got Spence hooked on creating cosmic controverseries and who, not long after, turned me on…at a Princeton summer session".

God, I suddenly feel I’m in the presence of…of extraterrestial brainpower!!

Believe me, Miss Grace, Phil interjected, just because we make a living dealing with a lot of hypotheticals and intangibles doesn’t make us smarter than say…a lovely reporter such as yourself.

You make me blush, Professor!

Call me Phil, please.

And call me Spence if you don’t mind, Miss Grace..

And I’m Charlie to my friends, which I hope we’ll become…Oh, I didn’t realize the time. Got to get to mid-town.

I can show you to a taxi if you like, Tim offered.

Thanks…See you Friday, Doct–Spence?

Hope it’s worth the trip.

"I’m looking forward to it!"

Shaking his hand once again, she waved her farewell to Phil as Tim escorted her out of the room.

…You thinking what I’m thinking?, Phil purred, following her movement.

That you’d like to diagonalize her matrix.

Exactly.

My thought was less prurient.

Naturally.

Like what kind of music she’s into.

Oh, sure. You’re still playing the romantic, aren’t you?

Meaning I’m unromantic?, he chuckled.

Meaning you’re in denial she’s the hottest piece either of us have met in the flesh since I don’t know when and you’d like to screw her on the spot. What kind of music–ha!

"Whatever you say, amigo…her voice was contralto - I liked its smoky quality too. How old do you think she is? Thirty maybe?’

Try thirty-five. At least. No wedding ring, though. That’s puzzling. Career woman but in a tough racket. Not much bread. She clearly likes the finer things. Why no rich mate, in this town especially?…Maybe got a sugar daddy…Maybe a lesbo…Interesting.

I love your inquiring mind, Phil. She has an aura of mystery though, doesn’t she? Struck me as a little tough for my taste - that’s why I wondered about the music. For me it’s a key to the soul.

Ah, here we go again. No wonder you’ve never…You want the moon when we have the stars!

What the hell does that mean?

Oh, I don’t know, he laughed a bit sardonically. It’s a line from a big Bette Davis movie, dumbbell. Of course you’ve never seen any of them so you wouldn’t know anyway.

"Ah, Goodwin, you are a chip off Dick Feynman’s wise-guy block, and I love you for it!…Man, I’m starving. Isn’t it lunchtime? I’m treating with my ill-gotten gains…"

Noon ’til Midnight

Once again Charlie had to seek out the object of her attention in a crowded room. This time it was in an East Side pub-restaurant where she was a known quantity. She greeted several confreres who called her name or smiled as she passed. And this time the object saw her first from his corner booth, got up and waved her over. She and Ted Conway embraced, familiarly.

You look great. Feel even better.

And you…without the beard you…I never knew you were so handsome. Really!

They sat down in the semi-circular booth; the waiter asked for her drink order - Bottled water, Tony, flat - while her burly contemporary signaled for another Beck.

Since when’re you teetotaling or weight-watching…or both?

Since I’m six months older.

Christ, it’s been that long? What, I took off for Tel Aviv and you had to go to–?

–Singapore. In fact you got me the gig, didn’t you, sweets? I’m buying…

Sure you won’t come to Harve’s tonight?

Can’t. Have to do some heavy prepping for a quickie. A physicist, no less.

Strange bunch. I did Los Alamos once. And dull?

"Spencer King. Ever hear of him?

Should I have?

I’ll let you know. He seemed a lively guy to me, squeezing her right hand, with a handshake like a halfback’s!

He leaned back in the booth to view her better.

You’ve changed in some way I can’t quite figure, Charlie. Is there a new guy?

Believe it or not, I’ve been as chaste as Snow White. By choice, and don’t ask me why.

Maybe because we should’ve been taking each other more seriously. I know it’s been a while since we were an item, but…why don’t you move in with me? Let’s give it a grown-up try.

Whoa! You scare me.

He slid closer and gently pulled her to him, meeting no resistance.

…We’ve never said the things lovers are supposed to, did we? But I’m ready to now. Seeing you here has made me realize I’m always happy - up - with you. And you’re as ballsy and funny as any guy.

Gee, thanks, Ted.

…We like most of the same things…and, for my part at least, you’re the best lay I’ve ever had…

She kissed him lightly on the lips.

Ah, Ted, you’re probably my favorite too - and all the rest…

But?

…I’ve never been in love, whatever it is, and I’d like to shoot for it, whatever it is. Have you?

Yeah. Right now. I think you’re fighting it is all.

Doubt it. Maybe women are different from men…Maybe we need more…magic.

Magic! Come on, Charlie, that doesn’t sound like you at all.

It doesn’t, does it?

"What is going on?"

I don’t know. I may be smart and witty…but I’m not prophetic. Which is what I’d like to be now!

The capacious Physics Library at Columbia had always appealed to Spence. It was one of the remaining few still pre-Einstein in age, content and ambience. Here he felt he wasn’t alone in his intuitive, often counter-consensus ideas; the ghosts of many a known and unknown visionary hovered about the thousands of known tomes and published dissertations.

Sadly computers had replaced key librarians. He printed-out some dated monographs on the chance he might uncover a nuance to complement his train of thought, sat at a reading table, gave a discrete belch in response to his garlicky lunch with Phil and began to study the densely technical papers.

He didn’t know how much time elapsed before he looked up from some heretofore unknown material, but when he did he noticed a familiar shape at a nearby window. It was Horace Pickering, staring out at the campus. Spence took a long stretch, got up and joined the aged veteran whose grim expression seemed unlike him.

What’s up, Horace? Into a problem?

Spence…thought you’d gone back.

Tonight.

You haven’t heard? About Tim…?

Tim Boyle? Uh, uh. What–?

–He killed himself, Spence. Blew his brains out.

"What?! We…we were all together just a couple hours ago. It’s…it’s impossible!"

He went home…I mean to his mother’s, for lunch. She lives on Riverside…He did it there.

Spence collapsed on to the window seat.

Jesus, Horace, why? He had the brightest future of anyone down here, didn’t he?

…A wonderful wife and new baby. His health. Everything to live for…

Unbeliev–any note?

Nothing. He was like a son to me, you know. You’d think he could trust me…let me help him…God, he must’ve been hurting…

He turned away and withdrew a handkerchief to pat his eyes. Spence stood, placed a consoling hand on the sobbing senior’s shoulder, then recalled: …We played handball last spring, went out for a beer at the West End afterwards. I remember thinking, this guy’s like me ten years ago. I…I can’t understand how he–

Horace faced Spence again.

"–It is senseless, isn’t it?…He was like you. So how could he do something this violent…this irrational? Suicide! Dear God…The only thing I can think of is perhaps those two had gotten into his head and he suddenly had doubts…"

Those two? Who do you mean?

Oh, you know–Weil and Smolin. The loudest naysayers of string theory. I heard each just got publishers for separate books on their arguments…Maybe Tim felt he’s been pissing away–

–No way he’d give in to because of that. No way….I still can’t believe he did it.

But he did…poor bastard, he did.

Stepping into the glaring sunlight with Ted, Charlie felt a surge of mixed emotions which she contained while giving him a kiss and smile before they went in separate directions on Fifty-fifth Street. Oh yes, she did like this fearless, gentle galoot but why was she so irritated with herself for spending three hours at a lunch when she had so much to do today? Christ, what a selfish thing to think after all the support he’d given her and their vigorous, uncomplicated fun affair of not that long ago. What was bugging her? The work, her bank book…certainly both could do with improvement yet she was steadily moving forward professionally, had no doubt her career was fulfilling. If her love life was static it was because she chose it to be. Two new pals, Mark and Greg, were sharp and congenial, and the platonic relationship with each was how she wanted to keep it, although she knew if she didn’t put out for one or the other soon, said relationship would wither. How many multi-hundred buck dinner, theater or club tabs could they be expected to pick up before she reciprocated by offering more than her company. Fuck’em - she wasn’t going to! If she accepted them as equals - how many times did she offer to pay her half? - without desiring them sexually, they could they keep their peckers in their pants or tough shit.

Jesus, kiddo, why this sudden anger toward friends rather than those on her enemies’ list? Not like her at all, she knew. The black mood began when she got up this morning with the masochistic obligation to watch the young Dr. King at work. It was ameliorated considerably by their one-on-one at the Faculty Club but returned midway through her salad with Ted. No. Another reason dawned on her. Now she was enjoying her angst, no longer letting it bring her down. She had to face it: she loved self-analysis, the exploration of her motives and fantasies. Clearly what provoked her bitchiness today was a leftover response to what she saw on television last night.

Flipping channels while rereading King’s bio, she got hooked on a live telecast of the concert-like memorial to the ultra-liberal Senator Paul Wellstone, his wife, daughter and others who had perished in a plane crash in Minnesota while campaigning. She’d met the Wellstones once at a D. C. affair for the Clintons and regarded the humorous, sometimes eloquent eulogies to them on the broadcast as ringing true. What she didn’t expect to hear though was how close Wellstone was to his family, despite his fanatical political activism. It brought home to her as never before how one, male or female, might be both a success in the dog-eat-dog world of some form of professional challenge, whether government, business, the arts or journalism, and a successful, beloved parent as well. She’d never seen a convincing example of it until last night.

In her own life so far, raising a family never had never been a prerogative since she’d never felt part of a real one herself. For the first time in her memory a fuzzy image of children, definitely hers, and a calm man observing them from a deep chair - her husband, their father? - passed in view. She experienced another visceral, wrenching reaction then also. Something quickened in her system.

Now, still on Fifty-fifth Street, she thought she understood what it might be: the ticking of a clock, the metaphorical but no less authentic biological time clock. Then, another jarring note: for an instant the man in the chair darted before her eyes with the face of none other than Spence. Spencer King? What a batty notion! Waiting for the light to change at Fifth Avenue, she shook it off, just as someone asked Carlotta? behind her. After the third time she turned her head to see the speaker, a well-groomed yet emaciated man in his fifties.

"Excuse me, it is you, Carlotta, isn’t it?"

It took her a few beats to connect the voice with the skeletal face. She also noted that his shirt and jacket had frayed edges.

Mitch…Mitch Bryant?

He broke into a wide grin that revealed a number of rotten or missing teeth. He lead her by the elbow away from the corner throng.

I thought it was you - stared at you for a half hour from the bar back there - but wasn’t positive. It’s been so goddamn long, hasn’t it?

I can tell you exactly. Seventeen years.

She hadn’t smiled back. She had to deal with the shock of recognition too short upon reeling from her imagined connection to King to express any social niceties. And, God, Mitch couldn’t be more than forty but look at him - ravaged by booze and drugs, when he never touched either back in San Francisco…or was it AIDS?.

Let me buy you a drink? I’d really love to hear what you’ve been–

"–Same here, Mitch, but I’m already late for a meeting. How