We walked through the throngs of people. I know Greg wanted to walk faster, but didn't seem to mind too much. He was chatting away about nothing in particular. For the moment he didn't appear to be too agitated by all the screaming kids and oblivious parents. Of course that could change in a heartbeat. Therefore I wasn't letting him out of my sight for any appreciable length of time until we got home.

The bookstore was closest so we stopped there first. Greg grabbed a motorcycle magazine and flipped through while I took my time and perused the shelves. I already had Salem's Lot and The Gun Seller in my hands; I was reaching for Smilla's Sense of Snow when Greg glanced up and narrowed his eyes at the title.

"What the hell is a Smilla?" he puzzled.

"It's the name of the main character," I explained.

"It's a stupid name," he groused, and followed me to the register.

The magazine was still in his hands. "You buying that?" I asked, setting the books on the counter.

"No, you are." He threw the magazine on top of the books.

The young lady at the register looked at the magazine, then back at me with a mix of patience and sympathy. She probably saw this sort of thing several times a day. Something told me that they all didn't end well and she was mentally preparing herself for the worst.

"Scan the magazine, please," I said with a small sigh, and swiped my credit card.

The books, magazine and receipt were stuffed into a bag. "Have a good night, sir," the cashier said brightly, handing the bag over the counter to me.

Greg chuckled and said, "It's always a great night when someone else pays for it." He then turned and winked at the girl behind the counter.

The cashier blushed and choked back a laugh. I grabbed Greg's arm and all but dragged him out of the store.

"Flirting with a girl young enough to be your daughter?" I queried with a playful slap on his shoulder. "Are you considering changing teams again?"

"I'm a middle-aged crippled jackass sleeping with another man," he answered. "But I'm not dead. And that girl was cute. And I think you're hardly one to talk, Mr. Multiple Marriages. Gonna track down Smilla and her fabulous sense of snow now? Will you have your wedding on an iceberg to prove your perfect love?"

"Not tonight," I said, and turned toward the food court.

I bought us each a coffee and pastry. Greg wanted an entire meal, but I didn't feel like watching him eat for the next hour. There were still a few more stores I wanted go to before the mall closed. I managed to talk him out of it by promising to make sandwiches when we got home. As many as he wanted. Surprisingly enough he gave in, told me get him a cinnamon roll, then stalked off to find us a table.

Munching on my piece of lemon cake, I watched him from the corner of my eye. He was wolfing down his snack and watching the people walk by. His features were cool and calm. He was filtering out the screaming and whining children as best he could. He wasn't smacking anyone across the knees with his cane. In other words, he was honestly out in public and enjoying himself. I was enjoying myself because he was enjoying himself. So far everything was working out quite nicely.

Twenty minutes later we were off again. He didn't seem to have any particular place he wanted to stop at and was perfectly content with following me where I wanted to go. So I went to a clothing store famous for their ridiculous prices and model-perfect employees. Greg didn't say a word. I went straight for the dress shirts and ties. He went over to the leather jackets and started browsing with sincere interest.

"Your credit cards work as well as mine," I called over to him after he held a solid black motorcycle jacket under his chin and checked himself out in a mirror.

"Christmas is coming up, you know," he said nonchalantly, now holding up a long brown suede jacket.

"Why don't we let Halloween get here first?"

"Christmas is still coming up."

"I'm Jewish, remember?"

"Yeah, well I'm not. Or is the leather not kosher?"

He put the jackets back and limped over to join me at the ties. He wasn't really interested in the jackets, he was interested in what I would say if he started bugging me to buy one for him.

"I expect something nice under the tree this year," he said. "Something that'll make me look badass on my motorcycle."

"And if there isn't?"

"Your ties go in the shredder."

"What will you tie me up with?"

"Your ugly shirts. Or maybe I'll just throw them in the shredder too, and put them out of their misery."

"Such a romantic," I said, holding up a forest green silk tie.

"That will look nice holding you to the bedpost," Greg smirked.

"I'm sure it will. Why don't you pick out a tie? I'll pay for it."

His smirk crumpled into disgust at my suggestion. "I don't wear those stupid things unless I have to."

"They look good on you."

"So does a leather jacket."

"I heard you already. Here, how about this one," I held an ocean blue tie up the light. It would match his eyes and bring out the darker tones, if he didn't knot it up around my wrists first.

"Sure."

I whipped my head around. "You're serious?"

"I'll wear it at his funeral."

He wasn't paying attention to me or the menswear. His eyes were locked on something else a few aisles over, his face hardened into a stony mask. I followed his gaze and felt the silky material slip out of my hands. Looking through the sweaters, standing less than one hundred feet from us, was Tritter.