After pouring a couple of cups, Hawkman went down the stairs and handed him a steaming mug. The old codger sat on one of the lower steps, so Hawkman leaned against the hand rail and studied his face. “What’s your name?”

“George Hampton.”

Hawkman held out his hand. “Pleasure meeting you, Mr. Hampton.”

After they shook, he looked up at Hawkman with sparkling, yet faded blue eyes. “Let’s not start that formal stuff; call me George. I know you as Hawkman.” He raised the mug, took a sip of the hot liquid and continued. “Granted, it’s your nickname. Your real tag is Tom Casey, but I like Hawkman better, so that’s what I intend to call ya.” He pointed to the sign at the top of the stairs. “I’ve kept my eye on you ever since you came into this town and hung your shingle above the doughnut shop.”

Hawkman suppressed a smile. “How come I don’t know you?”

George raised his bushy eyebrows. “Never needed your services until now.”

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