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Smiling, Jurgen said, “That’s a start.”

MR. BEER FOR BREAKFAST

After the visions that were inspired by the carved and painted casket, waiting for Fat Bob Jericho, Benny paced his living room and front hall with a golf club in hand. Having resisted buying a gun, having dropped the little canister of pepper spray in the garage, and having felt foolish walking around with a wooden rolling pin, like an aggrieved wife waiting for her philandering husband to come home with whiskey on his breath and lipstick on his collar, he had decided that the nine iron was a better weapon than a kitchen tool that formed pie crusts. A more sophisticated version of a caveman’s bludgeon, it made him feel—and no doubt look—more dangerous.

When the doorbell rang, he was so relieved that he didn’t stop to consider that the visitor might be the very threat about which he had summoned Fat Bob. He disengaged the deadbolt and pulled open the door.

The young woman before him appeared to have stepped out of an ad for a Caribbean cruise. Pale-yellow sneakers with white laces. Pale-yellow jeans with an electric-blue scarf for a belt. Yellow silk blouse with white buttons. Her ponytail depended from a pink baseball cap emblazoned with one word in a dazzling shade of blue followed by an exclamation point: SMOOTH!Instead of a necklace of tiny pigs dancing across her throat, she wore a silver chain with an enameled pendant featuring the face of a golden retriever grinning and winking one eye. She was carrying a white straw purse.

“Papa Bear’s,” Benny said, which was the name of the restaurant where he’d met her the previous morning.

She said, “Mr. Beer for Breakfast.”

Remembering her name, he said, “Harper.”

“Benjamin.”

“Most people call me Benny. What’re you doing here?”

“Bob sent me.”

“Fat Bob?”

“I refuse to call him that.”

“It’s what he wants to be called.”

“So he says. Are you going to invite me in?”

“Yeah. Sure.” He stepped back.

In the foyer, Harper indicated the nine iron Benny was holding. “What’s par for the house? Judging by the size, I’d say it’s a nine-room course.”

“I don’t have a gun.”

“It wasn’t such a bad joke that you need to shoot me for it.”

Closing the front door, he said, “Where’s Fat Bob?”

“Mr. Jericho wanted to stop for takeout, so he could eat and drive.” She walked into the living room. “Sparkly clean.”

He said, “I like clean.”

“Me too. It’s all very modern, slick.”

“I like modern things. Slick, sleek, minimalist.”

“It’s unlivable,” she declared.

“I’m sorry?”

“You don’t need to apologize. You just didn’t know any better when you bought all this.”

“I know what I like. Everyone to his own taste.”

“Do you ever sit here?” she asked.

“Why would I sit here?”