I stopped at the corner drugstore and had a fifth cup of coffee. Marge, the blonde waitress, glanced sharply at me.

“You look shaky, Mr. Caldwell,” she said. “Anybody’d think you was plannin’ to rob the bank.”

It was a standard gag. I grinned. “Got a headache, I guess.” I left there, went across to the bank. My heels smacked on the marble floor. They raised echoes. As if somebody were keeping pace with me, just a little behind, where I couldn’t quite see.

(cf. Brewer, Gil. It’s Always too Late.)