The side of the coach was stainless steel; it was polished and so clean I would have seen myself perfectly except for the horizontal fluting. The end of a pleasant two-day trip; it put me in mind of some train traveling I had done in Europe. Amtrak was clean, smooth, air-conditioned—a world better than the slow, filthy, hot coaches I rode years ago as a student. I'd probably say something like that to Latch whom I was meeting in a bar around the corner from the station. At the right time I'd say I was sorry his father had died.

It was certain my father wouldn't be there, but I still ran my eyes over the platform. He knew I was coming. So did my brother Billy, but on Friday night Billy boy would be too busy cruising around in his van with the side pipes and spoiler and sun roof and plexiglass tears at the rear. It was hot. I was already sweating. The old Victorian station had been remodeled inside but not yet air-conditioned. A low ceiling of hanging white panels hid those great high vaults and arches. But nice red carpets. Hertz and Avis. No more creaking floor boards, spits, butts, matches, and sailor puke.

I lockered my bag and walked up the short hill past the shop where an old Swede used to cut my hair. The place was now a toy store called The Happily Ever After: red letters on a bright yellow awning.

In the bar, I said, "Hey, hey, how's it going," and pumped hands that belonged to a few familiar faces. I made my way to the end of the bar where big Latch was. Almost seven feet tall, he was trim, still had his pointed beard and hair long in the back. Hooded eyes. Jokingly, he grabbed my hand. I knew what was coming: "Nice to meet you," he said. "Where in England are you from, Dulwich?"