Stuart Kaminsky - You Bet Your Life

— A letter from a lady who wanted to know if I was any relation to a writer named Peters who did her favorite children’s story when she was a kid. She had seen my name in the phone book while looking for a detective. I hoped she found one.

— An old hospital bill. From the date, I couldn’t remember what I had been in for. I guessed it was for my back or concussion. My calendar didn’t help me.

— An ad from a bank telling me they’d give me a pocket watch just like the old time railroad men wore if I deposited $500 or more in a savings account with them and promised not to take it out for a year. The ad had a picture of the railroad watch and a little chubby engineer holding it proudly.

— A message to call someone named Abe. I thought I could make out the number and guessed that it was Abe Gittleson, the guy I had done some work for who owned a pawn shop. I decided to call him soon and make a deal for the coat I’d bought in Chicago.

— A letter I was afraid to open.

I had purposely put the letter on the side. The handwriting on it looked familiar. I stalled for another minute or so, wiping my hands, throwing envelopes in the trash basket that no one had cleaned while I was gone. Then I opened it. It was from my ex-wife Anne-Anne Peters, nee Mitzenmacher.

The letter:

Dear Toby,

The last time I saw you you staggered into my place like a sick dog looking for whatever you could get. I told you to stay away. Now I’m asking you to give me some help.

Don’t get your hopes up. This is not a plea for you to come back. It’s a combination of two things. A request for help from and to an old friend, and the offer of a job I think you can handle.

The job is confidential and very important. The pay will be very good.

I tried to reach you by phone several times, but that dentist you share space with had no idea where you were.

I can tell you that it involves a man named Howard Hughes and some things that are vital to the nation’s security.

Please call.

Anne.