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“Oh?” This was an unexpected turn of events—unexpected because part of Hackleman’s impressiveness lay in his keeping to himself, in his never talking about his past or about what he did or thought when he wasn’t at work. Now he was talking about his childhood, and showing me for the first time an emotion more profound than impatience and cynicism.

“I didn’t miss a single Sunday School session for ten years,” said Hackleman. “Rain or shine, sick or well, I was there.”

“Devout, eh?”

“Scared stiff of my old man’s belt.”

“Is he still alive—your father?”

“I don’t know,” said Hackleman without interest. “I ran away when I was fifteen, and never went back.”

“And your mother?”

“Died when I was a year old.”

“Sorry.”

“Who the hell asked you to be sorry?”

We were pulling up before the last house we planned to look at that night. It was a salmon-pink mansion with a spike fence, iron flamingos, and five television aerials—combining in one monster the worst features of Spanish architecture, electronics, and sudden wealth. There was no Christmas lighting display that we could see—only ordinary lights inside the house.

We knocked on the door, to make sure we’d found the right place, and were told by a butler that there was indeed a lighting display, on the other side of the house, and that he would have to ask the master for permission to turn it on.

A moment later, the master appeared, fat and hairy, and with two prominent upper front teeth—looking like a groundhog in a crimson dressing gown.

“Mr. Fleetwood, sir,” said the butler to his master, “these gentlemen here—”

The master waved his man to silence. “How have you been, Hackleman?” he said. “It’s rather late to be calling, but my door is always open to old friends.”

“Gribbon,” said Hackleman incredulously, “Leu Gribbon. How long have you been living here?”

“The name is Fleetwood now, Hackleman—J. Sprague Fleetwood, and I’m strictly legitimate. There was a story the last time we met, but there isn’t one tonight. I’ve been out for a year, living quietly and decently.”

“Mad Dog Gribbon has been out for a year, and I didn’t know it?” said Hackleman.

“Don’t look at me,” I said. “I cover the School Board and the Fire Department.”

“I’ve paid my debt to society,” said Gribbon.

Hackleman toyed with the visor of a suit of armor guarding the entrance into the baronial living room. “Looks to me like you paid your debt to society two cents on the dollar,” he said.

“Investments,” said Gribbon, “legitimate investments in the stock market.”

“How’d your broker get the bloodstains out of your money to find out what the denominations were?” said Hackleman.

“If you’re going to abuse my hospitality with rudeness, Hackleman, I’ll have you thrown out,” said Gribbon. “Now, what do you want?”

“They wish to see the lighting display, sir,” said the butler.

Hackleman looked very sheepish when this mission was announced. “Yeah,” he mumbled, “we’re on a damn fool committee.”

“I thought the judging was to take place Christmas Eve,” said Gribbon. “I didn’t plan to turn it on until then—as a pleasant surprise for the community.”

“A mustard gas generator?” said Hackleman.

“All right, wise guy,” said Gribbon haughtily, “tonight you’re going to see what kind of a citizen J. Sprague Fleetwood is.”

It was a world of vague forms and shades of blue in the snowy yard of J. Sprague Fleetwood, alias Mad Dog Gribbon. It was midnight and Hackleman and I stamped our feet and blew on our hands to keep warm, while Gribbon and three servants hurried about the yard, tightening electrical connections and working over what seemed to be statues with screwdrivers and oil cans.

Gribbon insisted that we stand far away from the display in order to get the impact of the whole, whenever it was ready to be turned on. We couldn’t tell what it was we were about to see, and were particularly tantalized by what the butler was doing—filling an enormous weather balloon from a tank of gas. The balloon arose