Gregson fished for that rainbow trout that can’t be caught. He stood in the stream, feeling the current tugging on his legs, glancing at Tony who awkwardly entered the river. “If you catch a fish before me, I’ll buy you breakfast,” Gregson said.

And Tony fumbled with his line, fixing a fly on the end, casting off. It skipped across the river, and a fat trout swallowed it.

“Beginner’s luck,” Gregson said. The PI cast his line like an artist, catching nothing. It’s the way of the world.

Twilight turned into day and the river got hot, as a grey suit swayed downstream like a shark, bumping into them.

Tony thought it was his headache at first, brought on by his hangover, but then the suit turned over and it was a man, bleeding from his head and gasping for air.

“A suicide?” Tony asked.

“Get ’em out of the water,” Gregson said.

The man lay sprawled-out in the mud on the riverbank.

“A stockbroker?”

“Close, he works with numbers, that’s for sure, but I don’t think he does it legally.”

The suit had wide-eyes, like cerebral edema.

“Stockbrokers don’t carry cash. This guy has a suit full of bills.”

Suddenly, the man choked up water. His black and white face tried to talk, but no words came out. He reminded Tony of a bloody sundae or a raspberry pancake. He was hungry. He had earned a breakfast and Gregson said he would pay for it.

“What this guy needs is a cup of coffee,” Gregson said.

“I could go for one of those, but shouldn’t we take him to the hospital?”

The suit’s eyes grew wider, and his mouth said, “No.”

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