A light drizzle began to fall shortly after six-thirty, forcing the two valets to huddle inside the flimsy cashier's hut in front of the restaurant where they parked cars. The sleeves of their identical black windbreakers still became soaked because the hut was scarcely larger than a telephone booth. Above the front door gleamed a blue neon sign that read "Amalfi's Ristorante."

"Looks like my efforts have finally paid off," Colby claimed as he watched the rain spatter the scarlet mat in front of the restaurant.

Luke, the other valet, looked at him quizzically. "What do you mean?"

"My dancing," he laughed, executing a fast shuffle of his clunky black work shoes.

"Yeah, right."

"It's raining, isn't it?"

The past week had been dry as the Sahara so every night for a couple of minutes Colby had performed a little soft shoe behind the hut in hopes of bringing same needed rain downtown. He moved very deliberately, as if trying to remember the steps, but his fingers snapped without interruption. In the valet business the rainier the better otherwise patrons were content to park their own cars and walk a few blocks to the restaurant.

"What're you going to dance for next? A white Christmas?"

"Nah," Colby said, gnawing on a mint-flavored toothpick. "Folks don't venture out much in the snow to eat at restaurants. Even places as nice as Amalfi's."

"Ain't that the truth."

"Actually I hate the rain but as long as I have this job I wouldn't mind if it rained every night of the week." He grinned broadly and again splashed his shoes in a puddle of rainwater.

Some forty minutes later, the dinner rush was on, with one car after another pulling up in front of the hut. Colby referred to the rush as "herding time" and sometimes sang "Head 'em up! Move 'em out!" under his breath as he parked cars. Luke just laughed, confident no one would ever confuse his stocky colleague with Rowdy Yates of the old television western "Rawhide." As usual, most of the patrons were new to the restaurant, though there were always a few regulars recognized at once and acknowledged with facile smiles. There was one very tall guy Luke had never noticed there before but identified right away. His name was Jeff Belcher, and except for a faint mustache he did not look much different than he did eight years ago when they attended Fairmont High School together. Belcher was two years older so he doubted if the guy would remember him but Luke knew he would never forget him. Just the sight of him made his heart shudder a little so as Belcher approached the hut with his car keys, Luke spun away and asked Colby to park his maroon Pontiac.

"What's up?" Colby asked after he returned from the parking lot. "You look as if you've seen a ghost."

"Oh, I spotted some guy I went to high school with and I really didn't feel like talking with him."

Colby nodded, his dusty blue eyes shining mischievously. "I know what you mean. I've come across some folks eating here I went to school with too. And I hate to embarrass them by letting them see how well I'm doing these days."

"Oh, sure. We're on top of the world all right."

"And there isn't much room left for too many others."

Luke didn't realize Belcher had come out of the restaurant until he stepped beside him and presented his parking token. Colby was away fetching another car so he could not avoid him this time, but as he suspected Belcher didn't have the faintest idea who he was. He scarcely even made eye contact with him, he was so busy talking with the two older men who had accompanied him to the restaurant. Luke took the token without a word then hurried off and returned with his creaking Pontiac and received a dollar tip from one of the older men.

"That Pontiac nearly ran me off the road, " Colby fumed when he got back to the hut. "I can't believe we didn't sideswipe one another."

"Neither can I. I thought for sure you were going to collide."

"That was that guy you knew in high school, wasn't it?"

"Afraid so."

"No wonder you don't want to have anything to do with him. He's an accident waiting to happen."
*
On his way to work the next evening Luke swung by the plain sandstone apartment house where Belcher lived on the east side of town. He had looked up his address in the telephone directory out of curiosity then decided to have a look at the place to see how it compared to his own modest digs. Considerably better, he had to admit, despite the eyesore of a burnt-out movie theater on the corner. The maroon Pontiac was parked in the lot behind the three-story building. He started to slow down, to see if Belcher was inside it, then feeling a little ridiculous he turned away and raced past the building.

After several blocks he stopped outside a bakery and went in and again returned after only a few minutes. Luke noticed he didn't appear to have purchased anything. He drove next to a massage parlor then to a hardware store and an auto body repair shop. He never spent more than two or three minutes in any of the places he visited, including the massage parlor. Puzzled, Luke didn't follow him from the repair shop but instead got out of his car and went into the place and approached the freckled young man behind the counter.

"Yeah, what can I do for you, mister?"

"I was driving by a couple of minutes ago and thought I saw some guy I knew in high school come in here and by the time I parked he had already left. I was wondering if you could tell me if I had the right person. His name is Jeff Belcher."

"Yeah, he was in here."

"I'll be damned," he said, feigning surprise. "Do you happen to know where he works so I can get in touch with him?"

"Oh, yeah. I know all right. He works for the skinflint that we lease this building from -- Mr. Walter Ersgard."

"I see."

"He's in here the first Tuesday of every month to collect the rent and, believe me, it's hell to pay if our check isn't here for him."

"That surprises me. I can't imagine him twisting anyone's arm."

"Can't you? Then I don't think you know your friend that well anymore."

"Apparently not."

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