As she rides by

one of their bank accounts?”
    “Not yet,” he said. “But they will be one of these years when we upgrade.”
    “So much for that one,” I said. “Well, hell, Frank, it’s got me.”
    “What exactly are we looking for, Vic?” he asked then, not unreasonably, if you ask me—I would have asked it hours ago.
    “Would you say Jonathan Flint was a methodical, a careful worker, indeed, a careful man?” I put to him as yet another page slid into temporary oblivion. I have a pal who should be grown up by now, as he’s my age, but he still says “obolivian” for “oblivion”; kinda apt, somehow.
    “I certainly would,” Frank said.
    “Say he was sitting here one afternoon, or over there, or wherever he did sit, and he saw something, one entry maybe, that rang a little bell, God knows why. He investigated, and found a whole lot more, enough to fill a sheet of paper. He was bothered but perhaps not unduly worried. We know he wasn’t unduly worried, Frank, because off he goes to the Drama with Mary, the only person, according to you, who might be responsible for these as yet mythical entries that do not as yet unduly worry him. He is, however, bothered enough by same to make a duplicate list, which he stashes in his safe-deposit box, being the careful type.
    “I can see it all now, Frank. He draws her aside, or mayhap phones her after work. Eh, Mrs. Jones, I hate to bother you, pardon me ever so, but while I was bringing the records up-to-date after lunch today, I came across one or two worrying factors. Really? she exclaims. What could it be? Oh, maybe it’s those new abbreviations Fve been introducing and forgot to tell you about, I’m sure I can clear it up and the sooner the better, I’m sure you’ll agree. Ah. What are we now, Friday (say)? Gee I’m not available tomorrow, darn, because my hubby and I are out of town till Sunday, my daughter’s wedding, you know, up in Sausalito—or any other instant but plausible lie she can think up to give her a little time to figure out with hubby what to do. Still, she doesn’t want to let too much time go by, so she says, tell you what, John, putting him at ease and all, keep Sunday evening open, we’ll go for a drink somewhere nice and all will be revealed. Toodle-oo for now. Call ya Sunday to confirm. All of which is not too shabby, given the shock she’s just had.”
    “Know what?” Frank said then. “I need a drink. I don’t want a drink, I need a drink.”
    “While you’re up,” I said, handing him my empty glass. “Irish with a water chaser, please.” Out went Frank. Back to the interminable blur of a list I went, hoping for some thunderclap of brilliance. I saw instead more letters without meaning, and occasionally some I could decipher, such as POB, followed by a number, as in Post Office Box 64, and do, as in care of.
    When Frank returned with the booze, I asked him what “CC” stood
    for.
    “Certified check,” he said.
    I took a satisfying swig of the whiskey. “And what’s that little squiggle thing mean?” I pointed to a little squiggle thing after one of the names.
    “Well, sort of attention, action required,” he said, knocking back a good part of his drink.
    I said, “Frank, be specific or I’ll put some tonic in that straight vodka you’re drinking.”
    “A secretary opens the mail,” he said. “She’s got some access to what you’re looking at right there but not all. So she enters that squiggle to indicate some action is needed. A change of address. A death. A transfer of a pension to a remaining spouse. The computer by itself, in its wisdom, will put a squiggle in automatically when required, indicating things like pensions that are cost-of-living indexed and need to be readjusted.” He was about to go on and tell me more about the life of a squiggle when I held up one hand, asking for silence. Silence fell, and continued to fall as V. (for Victor) Daniel pursued an elusive thought through the windmills of his creaky mind.
    “See, Frank,” I said a while later, “vehicular homicide is one thing. So is a guy clouting his wife over the head with a gallon bottle of Gallo wine when he’s juiced. But for upstanding and decent folks like us, Frank, why do we kill people?”
    “Self-defense?” he said.
    “How about money?” I said.
    “Maybe, if there was enough of it,” he said, doubtfully.
    “Exactly,” I said warmly. “By George, you’ve got it, Frank. There has to be enough of it or it ain’t