“Recall that missing cash back in ’69, when you thought Sam Willis carried it to Mexico?”
“Yeah, Sam, sure.”
“No. Me.”
“How’s that?”
“Me,” I said. “I did it. Sam ran off with some babe. I snatched the moola and blamed him! Me!”
“That’s not so bad,” said Walter. “I forgive you.”
“Hold on, there’s more.”
“I’m holding.” Walter laughed, quietly.
“About that senior prom in high school, 1958.”
“A wet-blanket night. I got Dica-Ann Frisbie. I needed Mary-Jane Caruso.”
“You woulda had her. I told Mary-Jane all about your womanizing, listed your scores!”
“You did that!?” Walter opened his eyes wide. “So she wound up at the prom with you.”
“That’s it.”
Walter fixed me with a brief stare, then looked away. “Well, hell, that’s old water under an older bridge. You done?”
“Not quite.”
“Jesus God! This is getting interesting. Spill it.” Walter punched his pillow and reared up on one elbow.
“Then there was Henrietta Jordan.”
“My God, Henrietta. What a beaut. That was a great summer.”
“I ended that summer.”
“You what?!”
“She dropped you, yes? Said her mother was dying, had to spend time with Mom.”
“Then you ran off with Henrietta too?”
“That’s it. Next item: remember when I got you to sell Ironworks, Inc., at a loss? Next week I bought on the way up.”
“That’s not so bad.” Walter swallowed.
I went on. “Item: In Barcelona, ’69, I pleaded migraine, went to bed early, took Christina Lopez with!”
“I often wondered about her.”
“You’re raising your voice.”
“Am I?”
“Now, your wife! Played Gotcha with her.”
“Gotcha?”