The story so far: The annual holiday party of the Yule Be Sorry Club at R&B Automotive has been interrupted by the arrival of a stranger in distress.

An army of fumbling hands helped Tony Renzi to steer the frozen fellow who'd just stumbled into the shop to an empty folding chair in the service bay. The chair was next to the ice cooler that had chilled the beer for the party, now winding down.

Too many hands, in fact, plucked at the old man's clothes, too many voices offered a jumble of suggestions. Someone plucked his fogged classes off his nose; his unfocused eyes darted fearfully.

"Step back, guys, step back," Tony said. "Give the poor guy some room to breathe."

The man looked to be in his 70s, bald beneath his ancient brown fedora. Drops of water glistened on his trim, white moustache, as the ice on it began to melt. His face was slack and pale, but his skin had the weathered texture of a man who'd worked his life in the sun. He wore no overcoat, despite the 15 degrees outside, just layers of sport jacket, cardigan, pullover and frayed white shirt with a thin black tie.

Tony's partner, Bart Brewer, produced a glass of water.

Upon stumbling into the place, the fellow had gasped a couple of words. One of them was water. That one, Bart figured he knew what to do with. The other - flowers - was a puzzlet. Not too many flowers to be found out in the Arctic cold that gripped Philadelphia.

Bart offered the water; the man tried to clasp the cup, but his hands, knobby and bent, couldn't quite steady it. Bart helped lift the cup to his lips; he took a sip, closed his eyes, shook his head.

"Here, try this, guy needs something to warm his blood, not cool it." - this from Johnny T., who thrust forward a plastic cup of Chianti. This time, the man responded greedily to the offered cup, one sip, two, then a healthy gulp through chapped lips.

"Sir," Tony boomed, "what happened to you? What in heck happened?"

The man's eyes opened, seemed to notice Tony for the first time.

"Lost," he rasped, his lips and Adam's apple working hard to push the one word out. "Looking by water. Flowers. Niece."

"He's looking to buy water and flowers? What the . . . ?" barked Old Milt, who probably had this fellow by a few years but was feeling a lot more chipper.

The man shook his head, eyes flashing irritation. He licked his lips and worked them into a faint No! Every word a struggle, he pushed out more information,

"Lost. Looking for niece. Christmas. Lives by water. . . . More wine. Please."

"Coming right up." Johnny T. offered the old man a refill. He drank eagerly.

"OK, OK, now we're getting a picture," Tony said. "You're looking for your niece's house. You're due for Christmas. They live near water? What kind of water? River? Lake? Ocean?"

The man opened his mouth; behind his eyes, his brain busily rummaged through its compartments, seeking the needed word. Nothing. A grimace, a fist pounding his thigh in frustration.

"OK, don't worry," Tony pressed on. "Easier question. What's your name, sir?"

The same drill. The lips parted, the eyes darted, another pound of the fist.

"OK, OK, don't worry. You're at R&B, sir, where we always diagnose the problem. Scootch, make yourself useful. Go out and check the glovebox of his car; see if he's got his owner's card."

Scootch was back in a moment: "It's a white Mazda pickup. By the looks of it, the first one Mazda ever made. Owner's card made out to a Gino Bontempo."

The old man nodded: "Me."