“Hello, Fritz,” I yelled, “you stupid goddamn son of a bitch, you! Come in!”
“I am!”
As if wearing heavy military boots, Fritz Wong clubbed the carpet. His heels cracked as he seized his monocle to hold it in the air and focus on me. “You’re getting old!” he cried with relish.
“You already are!” I cried. “Insults?”
“You get what you give!”
“Voice down, please.”
“You first!” I yelled. “You hear what you called me?”
“Is Mickey Spillane better?”
“Out!”
“John Steinbeck?”
“Okay! Lower your voice.”
“Is this okay?” he whispered.
“I can still hear you.”
Fritz Wong barked a great laugh.
“That’s my good bastard son.”
“That’s my two-timing illegitimate pa!”
We embraced with arms of steel in paroxysms of laughter.
Fritz Wong wiped his eyes. “Now that we’ve done the formalities,” he rumbled. “How are you?”
“Alive. You?”
“Barely. Why the delay in delivering provender?”
I brought out Crumley’s beer.
“Pig swill,” said Fritz. “No wine? But …” He drank deep and grimaced. “Now.” He sat down heavily in my only chair. “How can I help?”
“What makes you think I need help?”
“You always will! Wait! I can’t stand this.” He stomped out into the rain and lunged back with a bottle of Le Corton, which, silently, he opened with a fancy bright silver corkscrew that he pulled from his pocket.
I brought out two old but clean jelly jars. Fritz eyed them with scorn as he poured.
“1949!” he said. “A great year. I expect loud exclamations!”
I drank.
“Don’t chugalug!” Fritz shouted. “For Christ’s sake, inhale! Breathe!”
I inhaled. I swirled the wine. “Pretty good.”
“Jesus Christ! Good?”