“I don’t know,” I say. “Navy-blue jacket with gold buttons. Captain’s hat. A big white beard and a huge cigar?” “So Santa, on a yacht,” he says. “Mr. Monopoly, on vacation,” I say. “For what it’s worth, you’re not the stereotypical image of a Harry Kilpatrick either.” “I know,” I say. “I’m not a Dickensian street orphan in a newsboy hat.”
