“Has the house been appraised?”

“For insurance purposes, yes. It was appraised at two and a half million dollars. But that is our house, we live there, we raised our children there, we would never think of selling.”

“You’re aware, aren’t you, Mrs. Osbourne, that your husband owes Mr. Sussman a million dollars.”

“I am aware that Mr. Sussman is a speculator who bought that note for an absurdly low amount and now wants to grab his handful of flesh. My husband is a wonderful man, Mr. Carl, and I love him very much. But he is not the cleverest of businessmen, not as sharp, I am sure, as your Mr. Sussman. Anyone who lends my husband money does so at his own risk.”

I actually admired Mrs. Osbourne as she sat in our crummy little conference room and so bravely defended her husband’s standard of living. If I was in less need of my twenty-five percent share of Winston Osbourne’s cash I might have thought twice about what I was planning to do. But even after a second thought I would have continued. My investigation had uncovered information of which Mrs. Osbourne might not have been aware and of which I assumed it was my duty to apprise her.

“You own a property in Aspen, is that right, Mrs. Osbourne?”

“A condominium, yes. The children love to ski.”

“And that is in both of your names?”

“Of course.”

“And there is the property in Palm Beach.”

“Yes, but that is not ours. That is owned by Winston’s mother. Winston’s grandfather built it, it is a fabulous place, really. Have you been to Palm Beach, Mr. Carl?”

“No.”

“Where do you winter?”

“In front of the television.”

“I see. Well, the house in Palm Beach is not ours. We are permitted to use it, but when we are there we are guests. My understanding is that Winston’s mother has willed it to Winston’s brother, Richard.”

“So my patience would not be rewarded.”

“No, I’m afraid not. The entire family is aware of Winston’s current troubles. Whatever is to be left is being left to the children. Winston has made you an offer, has he not?”

“And there is the boat,” I continued, ignoring her comment about the offer. “You own a boat.”

“Yes.” She sighed. “He named it after me. We leave it in Florida.”

“How big is the boat?”

“Something like forty feet, I’m not sure. Winston is the sailor. He is quite dashing in his white ducks and blue blazer.”

“In whose name is the boat titled?”

“Isn’t this getting repetitious, Mr. Carl? It is in both of our names. Everything is in both of our names.”

“Including the condominium in Atlantic City?”

“We don’t own a condominium in Atlantic City.”

“Are you sure?” I said. “There is a condo in a building right on the Boardwalk titled to Winston Osbourne. Let me show you a copy of the deed. I’ll mark this P. 12.”

“There must be some mistake, you must be thinking of another man. We don’t own a condominium in Atlantic City.”

“The person living there identified your husband as the owner.”

“I’m not aware of a condominium in Atlantic City.”

“Well, this person living there now says she doesn’t pay rent to Mr. Osbourne, and I was wondering if she paid the rent to you. Any such rent would be attachable on behalf of Mr. Sussman.”

“No, of course I am not receiving the rent.”

“Perhaps you know the person living in your husband’s apartment, a Miss LeGrand?”

“No.”

“Let me show you a picture. I’ll mark this P. 13.”

“What is this? This is a brochure of some sort.”

“Yes, for a gentlemen’s club called the Pussy Willow. Why don’t you look through it. I’m referring to the section about the exotic dancers. Let me show you. The woman right there.”

“Tiffany LeGrand?”

“Oh, so you do know her,” I said, even though the shaking of her head, her dazed eyes, opened brutally, unnaturally wide, the death grip with which she now held onto her pearls, all of it stated with total clarity that no, no, she did not know her, had never heard of her, no.

I ran into Winston Osbourne again the gray and tremulous fall of which now I speak, a full six years after I had begun my relentless search for his final dollar. Halfway up 21st Street from Chestnut, just before my small and decrepit office building, yawned an alleyway. There was a stink to that alley, it was where the dumpsters were stored for the buildings on either side; it smelled of fish bones from the seafood restaurant on 22nd Street, of rotting vegetables from the Korean grocery beneath my office. Two homeless men shared the alley as sure as if they had signed a lease. They pissed in the entranceways of all the surrounding buildings, like wolves marking their territory. They panhandled, drank out of brown paper bags, shouted obscenities when the mood struck, and sometimes actually worked by carrying a sandwich board for Condom Nation, a prophylactic store, back and forth in the neighborhood. Every time I walked up 21st Street, I accelerated as I approached the alley, keeping my eyes straight and my shoulders hunched, trying to avoid any contact with my neighbors. I had just passed the gap one night that fall when I heard my name being called and felt a grab at my arm.

I whirled away from the contact, expecting to see one of the homeless men, but who I saw instead was Winston Osbourne. His raincoat was grimed, his hair long and stringy, his once prosperous face now drawn and sallow. His fingernails struck me particularly; where they had been manicured and glossy they were now long, yellow, opaque with ridges. They were the fingernails of a corpse.

“Victor,” he said, his voice still dripping with superiority. “We’ve been discussing you, Victor.”

“You should have your lawyer contact me, Mr. Osbourne,” I said, staring at his nails. “I can only speak to your lawyer.”

He took a rolling step toward me. There was a limp now that hadn’t been there before. “Yes. But you see, I couldn’t afford to pay him.” He took another step forward. “Since the divorce I’ve gone through a difficult time, Victor. Much toil, much trouble. But I’m certain I can see my way clear of it now.”

“That’s good, Mr. Osbourne.”

“But I need to open a bank account, Victor, a local account for business purposes, and every time I try you end up attaching the funds. This has become very inconvenient for me.”

“With interest, Mr. Osbourne, you still owe Mr. Sussman almost nine hundred thousand dollars.” My gambit with his wife had not worked as well as I had intended. Osbourne, sheared in the divorce settlement, had been able to secrete most of what little his wife’s lawyer had left him before I could file my attachments. Foreign bank accounts, straw-man holding companies. He was much better at hiding money than at making it.

“I’m aware of exactly all that I owe Sussman,” said Winston Osbourne. “And I do wish I could pay him back for everything. You too, Victor. In fact, plans are being laid this very instant to pay you back. But I need to open a bank account. I can’t revive my prospects without a bank account, now can I, Victor?”

“Have you talked to a lawyer about declaring bankruptcy?”

“Yes, of course. But I’m an Osbourne, Victor, something you can’t begin to understand.” He shuffled his feet uncomfortably. “And not all my debts are dischargeable, I’ve been told.”

“What do you want, Mr. Osbourne?”

“I want you to leave me alone. All I’m asking is for you to behave reasonably. This is your last chance. I’m willing to pay you to leave me alone.”

“How much?”

“Ten thousand dollars, like before. But, unfortunately, nothing for at least a year.”

“Mr. Osbourne, you still have a vintage Duesenberg hidden somewhere. I believe you have money stashed in the Cayman Islands, as well as in certain Swiss banks. I understand you recently traveled to Florida, out of season, yes, but still Florida. Frankly, I think you can do better, Mr. Osbourne, than a slim promise of maybe ten thousand dollars to be paid in a year.”