I was thinking he had retreated to the Caribbean cave where he stores cases of rum, pin-jabbed dolls, and volumes of books on Voo-doo incantations, when a whimper from under the kitchen sink caught my attention.
Three years after his in-absentia wake, I had finally come to accept that the seven seas would probably never relinquish the body of my usually irritating but always brilliant friend. Heck, I had even come to hope that someday the stars might align to produce another profound and prodigious pigskin prognosticator like Dr. Pick Em.