After it was over, Van Houten walked up to me and put a fat hand on my shoulder and said,
“Could I hitch a ride? Left my rental at the bottom of the hill.”
I shrugged, and he opened the door to the backseat right as my dad unlocked the car.
Inside, he leaned between the front seats and said, “Peter Van Houten: Novelist Emeritus and Semiprofessional Disappointer.”
My parents introduced themselves. He shook their hands.
I was pretty surprised that Peter Van Houten had flown halfway across the world to attend a funeral.
“How did you even—” I started, but he cut me off. “I used the infernal Internet of yours to follow the Indianapolis obituary notices.”
He reached into his linen suit and produced a fifth of whiskey.
“And you just like bought a ticket and—” He interrupted again while unscrewing the cap.
“It was fifteen thousand for a first-class ticket, but I’m sufficiently capitalized to indulge such whims.
And the drinks are free on the flight. If you’re ambitious, you can almost break even.”
Van Houten took a swig of the whiskey and then leaned forward to offer it to my dad, who said, “Um, no thanks.”
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