That summer, home for a funeral, I drove to his house and knocked on his door.

Old buddy, he said when he answered. I can’t believe it’s you.

Believe it, I said.

Why don’t you come in? he said.

I don’t want to come in, I said. You know why I’m here.

All right, he said, trying to remain friendly. How about we go have a drink downtown. My checkbook is at the bank. I’ll pick it up on the way.

How about I meet you at the bank, I said. We can skip the drink.

Ten minutes later I had a check in my hand for $1,000.

I never saw him again.