The afternoon streets were bustling with life. Automobile horns blared, newsboys shouted headlines, and returning servicemen mingled with merchants and workingmen. The war was finally over, and the city was finding its feet again. New faces, new opportunities, and a whole lot of old scores still waiting to be settled.

Amid the commotion, a peculiar gentleman emerged from the crowd. Draped in a fine robe, with a generously stacked sandwich in one hand and a battered wooden soapbox tucked beneath the other, he made his way toward the busiest corner of the street.

He dropped the box onto the pavement, climbed aboard, adjusted his robe, and cleared his throat.

"HEAR YE! HEAR YE! LISTEN UP, YOU BUNCH OF DEGENERATES!"

Monte took an enormous bite of his sandwich, chewing thoughtfully as several pedestrians stopped to stare.

"That's right, you heard me! Park your keisters for a minute! I got somethin' to say, and believe you me, it's worth more than whatever racket you're rushing off to!"

He straightened his robe and surveyed the gathering faces.

"THE WAR'S OVER, LADIES AND GENTS! The boys are coming home, the factories are humming, and every two-bit chiseler in town thinks he's gonna make himself a fortune!"

He shook his head in disgust.

"Whatever happened to class? To respect? To a gentleman being able to conduct a little business without some nickel-and-dime wise guy sticking his nose where it don't belong?"

Monte paused to take another bite.

"Now, I ain't been around these parts long, but I've heard stories. Stories about the old days. Back when certain gentlemen had a few fellas working under 'em. Men who understood that a handshake meant something, a promise meant something, and a man's word..."

He lifted one finger.

"...well, that meant everything."

For a moment, his usual grin faded.

"Had a fellow in the family once. Ran with a rather interesting crowd, so I'm told. Had a peculiar taste in clothing, too."

Monte glanced down at his robe, smoothing the lapel with a faint smile.

"But that was a long time ago. No sense digging around in yesterday's business, now is there?"

He let the question hang before suddenly throwing his arms wide.

"ANYWAY! Where was I? Oh, that's right!"

He puffed out his chest.

"THE NAME'S MONTE! That's M-O-N-T-E! Remember it, write it down, whisper it to your sweetheart, whatever tickles your fancy!"

A man near the front called out, "What's with the getup, pal? You lose your trousers?"

Monte looked down at his robe, then back at the heckler.

"Listen here, wise guy. A gentleman oughta be comfortable while conducting his affairs. Some fellas wear fancy suits, some wear uniforms, and some of us got enough sense not to strangle ourselves with a necktie every morning!"

He raised his sandwich.

"And before anybody asks, NO, YOU CAN'T HAVE A BITE! The robe is a matter of tradition, my business is my own, and this sandwich..."

He pulled it protectively toward his chest.

"...is none of your goddamn business!"

A few spectators laughed. Monte grinned, thoroughly pleased with himself.

"NOW THEN! The world's changing, folks! The war's finished, the streets are filling up, and there's room for a man with a little ambition and a decent appetite!"

He leaned forward, his voice dropping just enough to draw the nearest listeners closer.

"Maybe some of you remember how things used to be around here. Maybe you've heard a name or two whispered across a card table. Maybe you've even done business with a certain gentleman who fancied a robe much like this one."

Monte smiled.

"Then again, maybe you ain't heard a damn thing."

He straightened, took another hearty bite of his sandwich, and raised his free hand.

"SO REMEMBER ME, YOU MUGS! MONTE! That's all you need to know!"

With a satisfied nod, he stepped down from his soapbox and brushed the crumbs from his robe.

As the crowd began to disperse, Monte noticed an elderly gentleman standing outside a nearby tobacco shop. The old man hadn't laughed once during the performance. His eyes remained fixed on Monte's robe.

For the briefest moment, their eyes met.

Monte tipped an imaginary hat, offered a knowing smile, and disappeared into the afternoon crowd, still chewing.

The old man watched him go.

"Well, I'll be damned," he muttered.