DECEMBER 1, 1934
TWO PRESSED SUITS STOOD outside my office when I woke up in my chair. I straightened my tie with one hand, and with the other, I reached for my bean-shooter.
“There’s no need for that, mister...” The stuffed suit on the right, the one in the inch-thick spectacles, trailed off, staring at my door.
My glass door sign had been smashed in, probably when I first got on the outs with Lazar. There was still a part of the “B” and most of the “I,” but otherwise it was gone. Homer had, at some point, cleaned up the shattered glass—though not all of it, as a foot full of glass powder attested—but had never gotten around to replacing it. On the plus side, I didn’t have to worry about taking my keys anywhere. On the con side, security was kind of a joke, like my unlife.
“Just call
