I drank my coffee in the screened patio-a very common protection in Nebraska built to keep out West-Nile-fever-carrying mosquitoes-and checked overnight e-mails. The state's largest daily journal, The Omaha World Herald, no longer delivered papers to the western portion of the state, so I also intended to read articles from online news outlets. Doorbell chimes and the solid rapping of knuckles at the front entrance shattered my solitude. Because I wasn't anticipating company, I hadn't dressed to receive guests. With some embarrassment, I headed for the door in gym shorts and a T-shirt. Anyone who showed up without calling first got what they got. The form of a man appeared through the bevels of the door's glass, but it was an unfamiliar figure. I opened the door, and before I could offer a greeting, the man introduced himself and presented a business card. "Howard. Are you Tom?" "I am." A quick glance at the man's card showed an Arizona area code. Without thinking, I extended my hand, gave a polite shake, and invited him into my living room. "Would you like a cup of coffee?" "No, thank you." I drained my cup and set it on the end table. "You're a hard man to find." He studied me, perhaps for a reaction. "Obviously not. You're here." We sized each other up while red flags descended on my mind like ticker tape on a parade in Times Square. Smith made a host of obligatory comments. "Beautiful morning." "This seems like a nice town." "Did you grow up here?" I answered all with a formal "yes" or a less-than-committed "uh huh." With unexpected suddenness, his generalities changed to specifics. "Tom, do you know the McCains?" "Of course, I do. Who doesn't? Who do you work for, Howard?" The ticker tape almost blinded me.
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