The Darkest Evening of the Year

insurance.”
    “I’m Dwayne Hoover,” Billy Pilgrim said. “I called you earlier today about the Cadillac.”
    “You looked like cold-call insurance.”
    “No, sir. My business is organ brokering. One of my businesses.”
    “You’re here about my ad for the car.”
    “Yes, sir. I called you earlier today. Dwayne Hoover.”
    “Come on in.”
    Billy followed Shumpeter into a living room that dazzled with too many floral patterns and fringed pillows.
    “You sell a used car to a dealer, they give you piss for it.”
    “I’m offering cash, Mr. Shumpeter.”
    “Then they turn around and sell it for a blood price.”
    “Sometimes, you’ve got to cut out the middleman,” Billy agreed.
    “Like I said on the phone, it was my wife’s car. She died. Been a widower four months.”
    “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Shumpeter.”
    “The loss was my first wife. Pauline was my second. Nine years. Left me with all this damn frilly furniture.”
    “I’m not in the market for furniture, I’m afraid.”
    Shumpeter seemed to be alone, but Billy couldn’t be certain.
    “She had to have a Cadillac. Wouldn’t let me rest till she got one, then she dies before it’s a year old.”
    “That’s so sad,” Billy said.
    “So I’m hit with big depreciation, and it’s hardly been used. Let’s be clear right up front—I’m not going to be bargained down.”
    “I thought your advertised price was reasonable, Mr. Shumpeter.”
    “Then come take a look at it.”
    Happily, Shumpeter didn’t lead him outside to the driveway, but through the living room, the dining room, and the kitchen, giving Billy a better sense of whether anyone else might be on the premises.
    The dining room bloomed with rose, peony, and wisteria patterns: upholstery, tablecloth, wallpaper.
    “What’s the story with the hat?” Shumpeter asked.
    “Tyrolean,” Billy said.
    “I was a Shriner for years, but a Shriner doesn’t wear his fez except at club functions.”
    “I’m on my way to a club meeting from here,” Billy said.
    “Never heard of the Tyroleans.”
    “We’re relatively new. We’re a social club, but we want to make a difference, too. We’re going to find a cure for prostate cancer.”
    “Tofu,” said Shumpeter. “Eat tofu three times a week, you’ll never get prostate cancer.”
    “The guys will be sorry to hear that. We’ll have to find another disease. Sir, I gotta say this is a lovely home. Fantastic kitchen.”
    “I’m selling the place. It was too big for the two of us, but she just had to have it, now it’s damned sure too big for just me.”
    “And it must be hard, alone with all the memories.”
    “Not going to use a damn real-estate agent, either. They take six percent, and all you get for it is bullshit.”
    Billy followed Shumpeter through a laundry room—where the widower snared a set of keys from a pegboard—and then into the garage. A new Mercedes stood beside the year-old Cadillac.
    Registering Billy’s surprise, Shumpeter said, “There was life insurance. The damn IRS doesn’t get a cut of life insurance.”
    Nodding his head at the Cadillac, Billy said, “It looks sweet.”
    “Full disclosure. She died in it. Massive stroke, gone in two minutes.”
    “That doesn’t spook me, Mr. Shumpeter.”
    “She didn’t lose control of her bowels or bladder, nothing like that, so it’s not a reason to bargain.”
    “I don’t want to bargain. Not me. This is just what I’m looking for.”
    Shumpeter smiled, and his face didn’t crack. “Organ broker, you said, Mr. Hoover. Is that like pianos, organs?”
    “No, sir. It’s like kidneys, livers, lungs.”
    “Oh. You’re a doctor.”
    “No, just a middleman. But in our aging population, it’s a fast-growing business. You yourself are going to need a heart.”
    Shumpeter’s eyes widened. “On what evidence did you come up with that diagnosis?” He thumped his chest. “I’m sixty, but I’ve been a vegetarian for forty years, zero animal fat in the diet, rock-bottom cholesterol.”
    “Well, being an organ broker, I can tell you with authority, statistics show that vegetarians commit suicide at a higher rate than meat eaters.”
    Shumpeter glowered. “I read that, too, and they say we’re more often victims of homicide than meat eaters. That’s bullshit. It’s the meat industry buying phony research, nothing but propaganda.” He fisted his hands and puffed out his chest to proclaim his fitness. “When that Cadillac is ready for