I notice his cheesecake's gone.

"Anyhow, I say to Hal. ‘See you on Tuesday, at Rappaport's.'

"‘I don't think so,' he says. ‘Nor Thursday or any other day. I wish you well, Morrie, but, as the Jews used to say about the Tsar, not too close to me.' And he hangs up. And that's where things stand. A nearly 60-year friendship, down the crapper."

I hadn't said a word while Feigenbaum recounted all this, but the fact was that I knew Deborah Shapiro, or at least I knew her when she was Deborah — called in those days by everyone Dinky — Weiss. She was one of the most popular girls at Mather, went out with the star of the basketball team, a guy named Teddy Levinson, who went on to play for the University of Wisconsin, though he spent most of his career there warming the bench. A looker, too, Dinky Weiss, at least in those days, tall, slender, dark, well-built. The Weiss family lived in a sprawling ranchhouse on Francisco and Coyle. Liquor distributor, which Feigenbaum mentioned her father was, was one of those occupations that had its origins decades before in bootlegging and you didn't have to search too far to find those who practised it usually loosely connected with the Mob. A clutch of successful bookies and other men in the juke-box, slot-machine and other illicit businesses lived on those blocks off Francisco between Morse and Touhy. In those days Dinky Weiss, rich, popular, good-looking, was out of my league, certainly not someone I would ever have had the nerve to call for a date. I couldn't help thinking, though, that as the ladyfriend of Hal Kizerman she had come down in the world — way down, with a thump.

Please don't ask why, but I decided to call Deborah Shapiro. I'm not sure myself exactly why. Curiosity mostly. Was she still good-looking? What had time done to her to put her in the position of needing Hal Kizerman's protection, if she really did need it? She was in the phone book under D. Shapiro on Marine Drive, and when she answered the phone I mentioned my name, but — no big shock here — she didn't remember it, or know who I was. I lied and said that I was chairman of a planning committee for our class's 45th Mather High School reunion, and was calling to ask if she would be willing to serve on the committee. She said that she wasn't in the least interested. I told her I understood, and suggested if she had an hour or so free to talk about the old days at Mather someday I would love to meet her for coffee. I was surprised when she said "Sure, why not?" We agreed to meet two days later, at three in the afternoon at a coffee and pastry joint called Jules Minhl, on Southport, off Addison.

I arrived ten minutes early. The scattering of customers in the place were mostly women. The lunch menu was all salads and quiches and female sandwiches. The pastry on display was also for less than hardy eaters: croissants, muffins, small cookies. In this joint any of my regular customers would have seemed like they came from another planet.

I recognised Dinky the moment she hit the door. She was still tall, lean, her hair dark, probably now with the help of a beautician. She was wearing designer jeans, moderately high heels, a long red sweater. She had one of those deep poolside tans that Bobby, my wife, used to call "extra crispy." The look was high maintenance, a touch on the hard side.

I thought about ducking out, but she must have noticed me staring at her, because she came over to my table.