Saturday evening, I heard a knock on my door.

My neighbor, JJ, said he had to lay low for a while and asked if he could stay over for a few hours. Said he was leaving town before dawn.

“I think them cops had my place bugged. I made a phone call earlier and there was a screech—an annoying feedback. Never happened before.”

Before my wife passed, I would’ve turned the guy down. Shut the door before he could finish a sentence.
Back then I was still a little cautious. Protective.

Nowadays? What safety?

The only thing I ever considered safe sailed away a long time ago.

I let the man in.

As consolation, JJ brought a bottle of Maker’s Mark for us to share.

“I’m not much for big send-offs and whatnots, but I think you’re about the only friend I’ve got—even though we only talk in the hallway every once in a while. So I guess what I’m saying is… here’s to you.”

After that night, life was quiet.

For a good couple of months, I’d say.

Then one evening—also a Saturday—another knock on the door.

But it wasn’t anyone I knew.

A man in a black suit, maybe five-eight, clean-shaven, glasses, briefcase.
Badge clipped to his waist.

“I’m awfully sorry, sir, but have you heard from this man lately?”

He showed me a picture.

It looked like JJ.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know that man.”

“Obstruction of justice gets you serious jail time, mister. I’d be careful with the words I’d use. This man right here is your next-door neighbor. Last time he was here, you had a few drinks with him.”

“That’s not my friend. He doesn’t wear suits. Doesn’t wear fancy jewelry like in that photo. The man I knew wore bowling shirts.”

“Can you just answer the question? Have you heard or seen your neighbor lately?”

I told him the truth.
Not a shadow.
Not even a whisper.

The weekend after that—same time, same day—another man came to visit.

7:15 p.m.
Saturday.
Coincidence.

You get too many of those, it becomes an omen—my late uncle used to say.

I opened the door. A cop stood in the hallway.

“What’s this about now? I told your people last week I haven’t heard anything.”

“What do you mean, our people?”

“There was a cop. Looked like you. Suit. Clean-shaven. Asked questions.”

The cop looked taken aback.

“Can you describe this man?”

“A cop. Looked like you. Suit. Clean-shaven. Asked questions.”

He handed me a card.

“If you’ve seen or heard anything—from anyone, I mean anyone apart from myself—call this number.”

The week after, same thing.
Another stranger. Another cop.
Then again the next.
And the week after that.

I’ve got about fifty cards now.
I don’t call any of them.

I consider every one of them a friend.
Even though we only get to talk once,
in the hallway—like JJ said.
And we don’t rat out friends.

I still can’t believe JJ was the same man in that picture.

Tells you about people.
About secrets that just keep on
piling up.

Maybe JJ just wanted a do-over.
I ought to ask him where they give those out.