Friedlander, no chicken himself, crosses the road, that rapscallion Rappaport, friend and foe of ancient days, spotted opposite, key to classy car in just-in-time-caught outstretched right hand. “Rappie!” cries Friedlander. “F-Fr-Frie—” comes from Rappaport, the fortune in remedial elocution lavished by an embarrassed mother upon a stuttering son notwithstanding, the affliction returned with renewed vigour, it would seem, upon Mrs Rappaport’s now white-haired where not actually bare-skin-bald boy. They stand. “So,” says Friedlander. “How’s things? Still with the antiques?” Rappaport doesn’t bat an eye. “You think I should switch to dry cleaning?” he says. Friedlander applauds the wit, the speed…