A narrow emerald-green door swung unhurriedly open, as if a weak or wary person were pulling the handle of the pre-1960 abode.
Into the doorway stepped a Dean Norris / Hank Schrader look-alike. Instead of a chrome dome, however, a head of thick wavy silver hair framed a smooth-skinned oval face. I"m not sure what Rey and I were expecting, but it wasn"t a “debt collector” dressed in persimmon cotton pants, snow-white leather oxfords, and a butter-yellow cardigan over a Jello-green shirt. The middle-aged gent looked like he should be driving a cart on a Florida golf course or playing shuffleboard on a cruise ship.
In one extended nonchalant glance, he took in our faces and casual attire, and waited patiently.
“Hank – uh, Harry?” I asked, shaking rain from my umbrella.
“Yeah?” The voice w
