"
"You got it, Byron. I'll have Barbara fetch it tomorrow and
express it to you so you get it by Wednesday. Oh, wait a second,
who's the addressee?"
"Peter Jones."
William's eyes shot to Martha's photo. He blinked rapidly and his
lips parted. But no words would come out. He shut his mouth, took
a deep swallow. Heard himself repeat the addressee's name, then
for a few beats he heard his own blood pounding in his ears.
"Yep, new buddy of mine. You know who he is, right?"
William took a few seconds to answer. "Of course," he said,
staring at his Joey. Then, struggling to sound as matter-of-fact
as possible: "Why are you sending him this?"
"We're kicking around an idea we've come up with," said Byron,
all snappy and playful.
"I see," William managed. "Byron, are the two of you thinking of
starting up something new?"
"Hell, I don't know. It may be nothing. But it may be something,
too. Listen, I don't want to talk your ear off. It's late, and
you've got a real job to go to in the morning."
"It's okay. I was just reading."
"Well, if you've got a few minutes."
"I do. Really. The time doesn't matter," William said, and
shakily seated himself in his chair. He reached over to the
bookshelf and lifted Martha's photo. He placed it in his lap.
"Please, go on," he said, and for the next forty-five minutes, he
listened.
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