So here P am in the Land of the Dead with Mikey Portman. We are sharing an apartment which consists of two rooms with a bathroom between them. Mikey's room is also provided with a sleeping porch. There are two beds side by side and touching each other, lumpy-looking mattresses, throw rugs, eiderdowns, cushions covered in tattered, frayed yellow and gold velvet. Looks like the madam's room in a whorehouse, lacking only an asthmatic Pekingnese. It seems an old German lady with tight lace collar and high-button, black shoes has been billeted on us for the night.
Mikey is on the sleeping porch wrapped up in a pink blanket. I tell him he should let her sleep on one of the beds. After all, he can retire to the sleeping porch. And I have assurances she will not even remove her clothes.
"No, I don't want her in here."
"Well, you can stay on the porch. There are two beds."
"I might want to sleep in here."
No use. Death hasn't changed him a bit; the same selfish, self-centered, spoiled, petulant, weak Mikey Portman.
Now I see a small black dog peeking out of the bathroom door, which is ajar...dog all black, shiny black...with a long pointed muzzle quivering like a dowser wand.
"Where did that door dog come from? What is it doing here?"
"Does it matter?" Distilled concentrate of petulant Portman.
"Door man...door dog," I say.
He doesn't answer. Obviously I will have to billet the old German lady in my room, which is a duplicate of his room except the beds are smaller.
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