At half past nine, the grand piano in the starboard lounge played soft jazz standards under the warm copper ceiling lights.

June and I sat in two low velvet armchairs with a small brass teapot of chamomile between us on a polished table.

“Walt lost his main hardware supply line back in ninety-four,” June said, holding her teacup with both hands.

“He stopped talking to me for almost three weeks.”

“Greg didn’t stop talking,” I said, stirring a spoonful of honey into my cup.

“He just spoke in these flat, precise sentences, like he was reading off an index card.”