I was sitting in my vinyl swivel chair.

The chair had no armrests. It had come with the office, along with the broken particle board desk, missing one corner and warped as hell. Someday I would find myself a swivel chair with armrests. And a desk that didn't rock every time I leaned an elbow on it.

Someday.

To my left, sitting on a stainless steel counter next to a stainless steel sink, the compact coffee maker made surprisingly human-like gurgling noises, although I couldn't remember the last time I heard a human gurgle. On my desk was a greasy white Winchell's bag, bulging nicely with its contents.

The day was young and full of hope. That is, for anyone other than me. For me, it was just another day filled with regret, pain, and eternal guilt.

The donuts helped with some of that.

And when the coffee was done, I stood up and went over to the coffee maker and filled a metal thermos, then returned to my armless vinyl swivel chair. I sipped the brew and watched the steam march up to the ceiling, voicing my pleasure with a resounding, "Ahh."

The wind slapped rain against the window, beating a pleasant staccato. I swiveled in my chair, maximizing its full potential, and watched the rain drool down the massive pane, beyond which a low vault of swollen purple clouds meant business.

Memories of my son playing with plastic boats in the gutters came rushing back to me, and I let the tears flow freely, unable to stop them, not wanting to stop them.

Minutes later, I came back to the present and reached over to the donut bag. I had just selected a pink sprinkle when the phone rang.

I glanced at my watch: 7:22 a.m. Early for a client.

I lifted the receiver and held it against my ear and waited. I took a bite of the donut, as sprinkles cascaded down my short front like pink rain.

In the earpiece, there was some white noise, then a shuffling sound, followed by a long scraping. I took another bite of the donut, then cradled the phone between my ear and shoulder like a pro and took a sip from the thermos. There was now some shallow breathing. Very faint. Then it came faster. Now we were getting somewhere.

The rain paused briefly. Outside, the storm clouds were the color of brain matter. I next dug into the bag and produced a hefty buttermilk that made me feel good just looking at it. The rain returned, doubling its efforts, pounding the windowpane. Somewhere on the distant horizon, sheet lightning flashed. Thunder galloped overhead.

"A sad tale's best for winter," I said into the phone.

"What?"

A young man's voice. Maybe fifteen or sixteen. Old enough to find me in the Yellow Pages, but not old enough to find the courage to speak.

"Shakespeare," I said. "When in doubt, quote Shakespeare. Chicks dig it."

"Really?"

"Probably not, but you never know."

Actually that was a trick of mine to help me overcome my own shyness, which had plagued me all my life. Quoting other people was far easier than making stuff up as you go.

The young man continued saying nothing, but I could hear him breathing. The breathing, I noticed, was coming faster and faster.

Don't hyperventilate on me, broheim.

I'm a patient man. In my business, you have to be patient. I also knew that it's not easy for people to come to other people for help. Especially young people.

While I waited, I ate. The buttermilk was greasy, but that didn't stop me. I sat forward in my chair and listened into the phone and listened to the rain, and wondered who this young man was, but instinctively knowing that I should wait. That he should make the first move.

"Are you Spinoza?" he finally asked. There was a slight squeak to his voice. Fourteen, maybe?

"As ever there was."

"What does that mean?"

"It means yes."

"Oh."

More silence. Rain slanted diagonally across my window. Who has seen the wind, I thought, neither you nor I.

"Do you find people?" he asked.

"Yes," I said.

"How much do you, um, charge to find someone?"

I set the donut aside and leaned forward on my elbows.

"Two tacos," I said.

"Two what?"

"Two tacos and maybe a burrito."

He actually laughed. The sound was muffled, as if he were talking in a closet, or under covers. I figured maybe both. More likely a bathroom, though.

"My mom was killed," he said.

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"She was killed two years ago."

"I'm sorry," I said again.

"Why do you keep saying that?"

"Because no boy should be without his mother."

There was a pause and I heard a choking sound on the other end. He muffled the phone so that I couldn't hear him cry but he didn't do a very good job of it and I heard the deep sobs and the pain and the immense heartache. As he wept I thought of my boy, but I did not cry. I would not cry with the young man on the phone. Alone, yes. But not now.

I waited for him to get hold of himself and when he finally did, I asked him if there was anything I could do to help him. He sniffled some more, and told me his tale.

And what a tale it was.

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