“And the apartment, you keep it?” he asked.

“For the time being.”

“Good.

Those stairs are good for you.”

He held up the framed photo and checked the glass for flour.

Then he passed it to me with both hands.

I carried the photo from the bakery out to the car and laid it on the floor behind my seat.

The office was a single plain room above a hardware store on Madison Avenue, with one tall window facing the street.