Something, maybe a snatch of music, possibly a reference to the time I was a literacy Vista Volunteer in Pittsburgh, drew up this memory: My best guess would be that he was around 70 years old. He wore a herring bone suit that had seen better days; a sweat-soiled white shirt; a pair of scuffed, lace up black shoes. He placed a battered Homburg on the counter beside me as he ordered a cup of coffee. When he turned to say good morning, looking me up and down, checking out my half-eaten eggs and finally locking me in with a penetrating gaze of slightly bloodshot eyes, I knew a story was coming. The best ones usually come about through chance meetings and the time and willingness to listen. It was Saturday, I had nothing better to do, and the second cup of coffee was free. He told me that he was a debt collector during the thirties. He alluded to, but didn’t quite say, that it was basically a strong arm job, chasing out-of-luck debtors for one of the hundreds of fly-by-nigh