I thought you’d called me here to solve a murder, he said over tea. Or commit one. Sip. He
     took a three-mississippi sip.
True, we’d used Union Square as our office. We’d meet every day at the same café. He was
     my Mr. Jones when I’d get my Jones Jones.
Now he’s just bones, if that. But I called him back to the scene of past crimes. Look at our
     language, he says, it’s gotten so stark.
Who you telling, I says. There’s nobody here. Queer. He called me queer then spanked me
     into a cab to his pad where we got down
to aperitifs. Wait, is this the past? No, I says, it’s your present. One more for bold time’s
     sake. Me and Stewie, we’d rendezvous, we
would screw over drinks on the brink of disaster. We’d get plastered. What became of that
     bastard? Much & too much & too soon.