Christian Wiman

An air of old hotel about him: bitters and rye, pornographers in penguin suits, glaucous Dover sole. Derringer words—doff, peruse— which he hardly needs to use, to use. Morals as involved as baklava. He brushes crumbs from his lapel as if he had one. Death? Who knew the rube’s recessive treasures better than he, who knew himself? So he folded, a paragon of suave aced at the end by galumphing luck.