"What's the name again, please, sir?"
I spelled it. She was gone for a long time. I felt a little amused. If Hattie didn't remember—I thought she would—they'd be obliged to consult books or files or whatever records they kept, that went back to the wild, drunk, bewildering years when my first marriage had worn patience thin, shattered it, and turned loose on the town a younger man. A decade and more ago.
Hattie's voice—deep, harsh—worried, I thought. "Phil, for God's sake! Where have you been keeping yourself? I heard you were a reformed character."
"My wife told me to call you up."
Hattie was unruffled. "Sometimes they do. How are you?"
"Swell."
"I'm glad to hear it! What can we do for you?"
"It's a long, fascinating story that I'd like to run up and tell you."
"Be a pleasure. I'm losing at bridge. Looking for an out." She chuckled. "Stingers? Side cars? What shall I get ready?"