I looked for him, but he was gone. I checked the boozy dives and the greasy spoons and the street corners where the not-nice girls hang out. Nothing. He was gone. Tall guy, fedora, trench coat. You must’ve seen him. Usually smoking. He was always hanging around, poking his nose where it didn’t belong and usually getting it punched. A real wisenheimer, too, always cracking wise. You see him, you call. And if I find out you’ve been holding back… If you don’t miss that kind of patois, you’re either too young to remember it, or you’ve got a tin
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