The Best American Mystery Stories 2011

Heart Like a Balloon by Andrew Riconda

FROM Criminal Class Review

DENNY FINAFRIGGINALLY NOTICED that the blonde serving us drinks and Cajun fries at Fiddlesticks was missing a finger, the finger that traditionally bears a wedding ring.

It was an Irish pub in the Village, always busy as hell for happy hour. But it was three in the afternoon, a time for nonworking drunks mostly, the dour hour. I flicked a pistachio down and around the horseshoe-shaped bar and it silently disappeared. If people still smoked in bars (like they should), it would've pinged off a metal ashtray.

"How should I know? Maybe she's real commitment-phobic."

"But don't you want to know?" He implored with both hands, shaking those nicely manicured fingernails in my face on the you. And he always said shit like that with a guilt-provoking inflection because you didn't agree with what he wanted right then and there.

"I don't. But I will ask anyway. By the way, your cuticles are lovely in this light."

I knew he wouldn't ask. That's the Denny way. If Denny wants an answer, he asks somebody to get it for him. If he wants some business done, he gets a subordinate to handle it. And everybody's a subordinate in Denny's world. He's very successful, owns his own (big) contracting firm, but he's gotten everywhere by having others provide for him. He was like that even in high school. And even before, I'd hazard. Hell, as an infant he probably outsourced for tit milk.

So when the defingered blonde came by, I said, "My friend here is wondering what happened to your finger."

Denny was shooting me a look, quick-tilted head and all, but she didn't mind. You can tell sometimes when someone's the type who's going to be bothered by any little thing or nothing in the world, and she was the latter. And quite from being commitment-phobic, her story was that she had been married all of a week and had been tending bar when her eye caught a cobweb on some ornamental woodwork above the shelves of booze. She jumped up to "swish" the cobweb away, the ring caught on the woodwork, and when she came down to the ground, the finger was literally ripped from her hand. Denny winced. I followed suit with a wince of my own-a courtesy wince. She provided more graphic details: doctors had cut her open at the hip-she peeled back enough of her jeans to show us the scar-and had sewn the severed digit up inside her, hoping to make it more amenable to a bid for future reattachment. Alas…

"Did you take it as a sign," Denny asked, "that you shouldn't have gotten married?"

"No, but it put me off cobwebs like forever."

She went to serve others, leaving us to each other, to it.

First he made a superficial inquiry about if things were working out for me on the West Coast, work- and women-wise; and then he made an equally superficial dig about my appearance-my hair had gotten long and hippy-straight and I was long in the beard, too-linking it rather adeptly with that initial inquiry, and how nice it must be that things were so laid back out there in California that I could just let myself go like this. I caught my reflection in the mirror behind; maybe he had a point: I kind of looked like I was living on a Brussels sprouts commune or something. And then it all got to being about him again.

"Things are good here," he said, "you'll be happy to hear."

"I'm overjoyed. What did you want to talk about?"

Denny jacked a smile onto his face and speared the Jim Beam-infused cherry at the bottom of his manhattan with a swizzle stick. When he got it to the glass rim, he grabbed it by the stem and dangled it in front of his mouth forever. It had to be big, and probably dirty. We hadn't sat together for a good three years. We'd been friends of sorts until I did a favor for him to keep him out of jail. Subsequently, he got leery of our association. Denny could deal with the blood on his hands as long as he didn't have a daily reminder of it. Shit, it wasn't all that much blood. And it wasn't even like someone had been killed. That being said, I certainly didn't mourn the loss of our friendship. I'd mainlined enough Dr. Phil while unemployed to recognize the toxic people in my life, and when this bastard broke wind, the room smelled of almonds and burned Legos. He finally popped the cherry, chewed, and swallowed. I'd only be guessing if I told you it tasted like anything to him.

He said, "I wonder where she keeps her ring now."

"Denny…"

"There's this guy…"

And if Denny wants some bit of dirty business done, he gets me, Brian Rehill.

"Christ, Den. Any time you begin a sentence, 'There's this guy.' Christ on a hand truck."

"I have no right to ask. I owe you. I remember."

He owed me. He remembered. California must be doing wonders for my disposition, because even that didn't get me worked up. And even though I suspected Denny had quietly put a few bad words in for me here and there, after I did him his little favor, putting the kibosh on jobs I should've gotten, including a couple of big sheetrocking contracts that would've put me into a whole other tax bracket, I didn't care now. This pariah's subsequent relocation westward turned out to be the best move I'd ever made. And L.A., much to the bemusement of my condescending New Yorker mentality, turned out to be paradise-professionally, romantically, and even, God help me, spiritually (I hadn't done anything I was ashamed of in nearly two years). I was even thinking about buying my first house, although I still needed to somehow come up with a big chunk for a down payment. Somehow…

I scanned the practically empty bar. No one at the other side was looking past their standard three-foot beer stare.

"I need to pat you down. Don't give me that look. I don't hear from you for two years, and six minutes into my Seven and Seven, 'There's this guy.' Again."

He clenched the bar rail, and I moved a hand around his body, quickly, efficiently. "Okay. Finish your fries and let's go for a stroll."

We walked out on Greenwich and headed east to Sixth, passing a bunch of specialty shops, an accessories store with Tibetan fur hats in its window, a mystery-book store, and a novelty shop selling the kinds of cheap, ironic gifts no one ever really needs, bobble-headed Jesus and Dick Cheney dolls. Denny did most of the talking.

There's this guy, it turns out, who happens to be the soon-to-be ex-husband of Denny's girlfriend-slash-administrative assistant. They separated over a year ago, but he won't stop calling, following her, showing up at her job (Denny's shop in Brooklyn), and threatening her if she doesn't take him back. He broke into her apartment a month ago, smacked her around, and she had gotten a restraining order. And things were getting even crazier now that he'd received his walking papers. Threats against her, Denny, and even himself-the ole hat trick of marital rage.

It was February in the city. I shivered as we walked.

"I know. Scary shit, right?"

"It's freaking freezing, Denny."

"Jesus, gone two years and you've already lost your cold-bloodedness. Is that a word?"

"Have somebody look it up for you."

We stopped on the next corner, in front of the Jefferson Market Garden, which had been the site of a women's prison in the 1930s. It was seasonal, and there was a big padlock and chain on the wrought iron gates. Everything's dead now, thank you, come again!

The wind was in our face, so we turned back the way we came, passing a graffiti-blighted playground I had not noticed on the first pass because of a fleeting redhead. I pointed out my car rental, and we stood next to it.

Denny said, "You know how these things go, Brian. If someone doesn't…"

"Intervene."

"You see it on the news all the time. The victim had a restraining order against her deranged husband. He kills her, himself… et cetera."

"I hate suicidal-homicidal guys the most. Make up your mind."

He didn't so much as crack a smile. Despite present circumstances, though, that was more his nature than situational. Denny never had much of a sense of humor. Cheap bastards rarely do. They don't give it up to charities, they cut corners on jobs at the customer's expense, if you sit with them during dinner and have only a drink, they expect you to pay for half of their shell steak and garlic mashed potatoes, and they don't yuck it up, cheap bastards, as if chuckles were something to be hoarded. Hell, ten seconds ago he wouldn't even let go of a second et cetera.

"This guy-he found Jesus last year too. But threatening your estranged wife, breaking into her place and smacking her around, this stuff Jesus doesn't object to."

"He's very understanding that way. That's why no one else has won the title."

"He left messages for her at work, disguising his voice. Saying Valentine's Day is coming up and he's got a big surprise for her. He's ruining our lives."

"Well, may I query, how does your wife feel about all this?"

He bristled. "I don't need you judging me. This girl-she fills me up. She makes my heart swell. It swells, just like a big red-"

"Okay, okay. In an ideal world, what kind of restraint would you put on the guy?"

"A talking-to won't work. I'm sure of that. He's proven that. He's way past…"

"So, we're talking about a permanent restraint."

His eyes went away from mine.

"Whatever you deem… most permanent."

He peered into my Avis midsize. He probably didn't want to look in my eyes-looking into mine might be like looking into his own soul, or lack thereof. And I must admit I'm kind of stunned that this is Denny's lump-sum estimate of me, that I am employable for such a grave task, capable of such a deed-past deeds notwithstanding. I'm slightly less stunned, however, by my agreeing to it-future deeds, specifically the one to the Santa Barbara ranch with the FOR SALE sign on its front lawn and fig tree in the backyard, coming to mind.

He was done looking into the front seat and moved on to some back-seat gazing.

"Are you gonna be guessing the contents of my trunk soon? Maybe win a kewpie doll or big comb?"

"Sorry. You got Wet Ones on the back seat? My hands are sticky from the ketchup."

"It's empty."

I was hoping he would beg off when I asked, "Look, I'm going in for another round. And to stare longingly at that nine-finger wonder. You want another?" I lit up a cigarette.

"I ought to head home."

"This isn't a favor, Denny. You and I are done with favors. Understand?"

"You're… like a subcontractor."

"Yeah, like I'm doing some facade restoration work for you. Or sheetrocking."

"What does a facade restoration cost these days?"

I gave him my estimate. He flinched but agreed. Rather too easily. I figured that would come back to haunt me, having seen firsthand the way Denny treats his subcontractors.

Details.

"He lives in Long Island City, in his mother's house, alone. She died last year and he moved in. There's a key. In Sucrete's purse. She won't even know it's gone."

"Just tell me his name and where he works and lives. And stay away from the girl-for now, and until things are done. I know she works for you, but don't be messing around with her in public. Close your office door and nail her on your desk blotter if you have to."

His eyes narrowed.

"Don't get crude. I love her. She fills my heart big like a…"

"Bite me. You want the thing done with savoir-faire, or do you want the thing done?"

He looked away again.

"I want the thing done."

We were quiet for a bit.

"Your girlfriend's name is Sucrete, huh?"

"What of it?"

"Nothing."

We shook on something. And he left. I unlocked the door to the car and removed the container of hand wipes. It didn't feel like he had transferred any stickiness to me on the shake, ketchupy and/or ethical, but just in case, I took one out, sniffed at the fresh lemony scent, and sighed. Whatever I deemed.

It's a type of fig, Sucrete is.

And his name was Joe.

I drove to the Bronx to say hello to my mother and, unbeknown to her, get the.38 that was stashed up in her attic; over the years there had been a lot of attic-relegated unbeknown-to-her shit stored in that house. I honked to alert her that I was in her driveway, and while I waited for her to show her face, I called a guy I knew in Williamsburg who used to own a crappy white van with tinted windows. He didn't really want to hear from me again and he still had the van. I honked again and my mother parted the curtains. She opened the window, looking smaller than ever, and threw me down the key.

I kissed her on her sad, tired cheek, sat with her at the kitchen table, told her I wasn't hungry, heard the latest on my junkie sister, went upstairs to the bathroom, pissed, snuck up the attic ladder for the gun, went back down to the kitchen, told her I still wasn't hungry, let her make me a grilled cheese, kissed her on her other equally saddened/exhausted cheek, and was on my way.

Joe lived in an industrial scab of a neighborhood in Long Island City, a flank of beaten-up warehouses mottled with exhausted sky-blue and lime-green two-family frame homes. It was sandwiched between a crap-drab housing project to the east and, to the west, a monstrously huge power plant with three candy-striped smokestacks that were constantly pluming a gray spool over the whole wound like a bad salve. This was all blocks from where developers were putting up 900K lofts and condos-and yet miles away. All the blocks were numbered out here, 46th Roads and 48th Avenues, as if the NYC planners took one look around and decided the streets weren't worth naming. Once the warehouses were done for the day, the streets fell into a coma, and the residents were too busy drawing their curtains and dead-bolting out nightfall to be concerned about a crappy, nondescript white van with tinted windows that had been parked on this broken-beer-bottle corner on and off for a few days now.

Joe's house was adjacent to a small playground that was always locked by dusk. He would come and go, not greeting any of the few neighbors passing his way; and, for their part, said neighbors usually quickened their pace when they spotted Joe. Several had gone so far as to cross to the other side of the street to avoid any contact with him.

An ancient minivan had collapsed into his driveway from four slashed tires, probably the result of Joe's sparkling demeanor, an example of which was stenciled on the side of the vehicle in letters the size of plums: "Notice to Parents: Please do not teach the children that same sex couples is okay. It is Wrong, it is an Abomination before God and Man." And then he'd added a quote from Leviticus, which went a little something like this: "If a man lie with another, their blood shall be upon them."

It was all very, very subtle, but I surmised Joe had some tolerance issues.

Joe didn't really need the vehicle. He never went anywhere but a few blocks in any direction. He made daily trips to the video rental, to the Chinese takeout or the pizza joint, and loads of trips to the liquor store around the corner. He hadn't been to work since I'd been following him. For some people, a broken heart is a full-time job.

The benefits suck, though, Joe. The benefits suck.

It was early in the evening and he had been inside with a bottle for a couple of hours when he stuck his head out the side door that faced the empty park. He put his head against the doorjamb, drunk as a skunk, and looked out onto the playground, maybe for ghosts of someone else's happiness, and a mostly drained bottle of Old Smuggler slipped from his hand and broke on the stoop. From the van, I looked at the other houses. No one came to their windows. They were probably inured to the sound of Joe's broken bottles by now. He stepped back inside, leaving the entrance and screen door open, and then reappeared with a jacket. He slammed the wooden door shut but didn't lock it. He stumbled down the steps on the side of the house, leaving the screen door ajar to the wiles of the Queens wind. He made his way to the sidewalk and up the street.

He needed another bottle, which I ascertained, because as he passed by my van he bellowed to the rest of his inattentive world, "I'm getting another bottle!Judge me!"

Inside the van, I raised my hand, volunteering for the duty. "Will do," I said.

I would have to move fast: if he made no other stops, he could be back in ten minutes. I waited until he turned the corner, waited a minute, and then I crawled up to the front seat. I picked up my satchel, peered up the block, and then down it with the rearview. I had planned on waiting until tomorrow night, but this was an opportune moment and I could see it all transpiring in my mind's eye: I could get in now without a hassle, wait for him to come home, and before he even had a chance to swill his next swill, come up from behind and stab him right through the fucking heart. Wow, I thought; my la-la land girlfriend was right about this power of visualization crap she was always spouting. I reached for the door handle planning on banging her thankfully and violently when I got back.

Suddenly headlights were coming at me. A red Camaro, a boy and a girl up front, pulled up across the street from me. He was yelling at her and she was just staring straight ahead, saying nothing. After a while he fell silent and gazed out alongside her. She tapped him on the shoulder, he turned his head, and she gave him the finger. He intensely returned to staring out the windshield, started the car up again, and pulled away. I waited. More headlights, this time from behind. A black Lincoln Navigator passed me by and pulled up in front of the house next to Joe's. A man and woman got out, slamming their doors in synchronicity. The woman tried to open the back door.

She yelled at someone inside, "Unlock the door!"

The man stepped up to the car and yelled, "Stop messing around and open the door for your mother."

Nothing happened.

The husband said, "I can't get the groceries if she doesn't unlock the door."

"I know that. Do you think I'm stupid?"

Using telepathy, I messaged hubby: Don't say, No, I don't think you're stupid.

"No, I don't think you're stupid," he said.

"Just wouldn't listen," I said.

Mom and Pop had convinced the kid to unlock the door, and by the time each of them had enthusiastically contributed to a round robin of verbal abuse and had finally gotten the Corn Pops, Pop Tarts, and one-percent-fat milk out of the vehicle, Joe came stumbling back down the street with his black plastic bag. The men exchanged subzero glances, and Joe staggered to the side entrance of his house. He dug around in his pockets looking for his keys but did not find them.

"It's unlocked, Joe," I sighed to the windshield.

He stepped up the stoop, pushed aside the screen door, and put his fist right through a pane of glass on the other door. He stood there on his wobbly drunk legs, watching, as the door creaked open on its own.

"You know, Joe," I laughed, "I think my personal favorite quote from the Bible is, God retards those who retard themselves. You fucking retard."

The man with the groceries dropped his bag to the sidewalk and went to Joe's yard and yelled, "What the hell you doing, man?"

Joe yelled right back, "Jesus loves me anyway!" and pushed open his door and went in.

I needed things to settle down a bit and I didn't want to take the chance of just sitting there while Joe replenished his blood with liquor, so I drove off, figuring he was in for the rest of the night anyway, and the more stewed he got, the better. I went to a White Castle drive-in a few blocks away and got a bag of murder burgers, pulled out of the drive-in lane, and parked in the lot.

It didn't really seem that wrong to me, I had to admit. I had always felt a tinge of guilt over the last guy, the one who was going to testify against Denny about bid-rigging. I was only supposed to persuade him to change his story, but at gunpoint the man had grabbed his chest and vapor-locked right in the front seat of his car. He might not have been a bad guy, I don't know; we really hadn't had the opportunity for getting acquainted. I remember the fear in his eyes. When the gun was against his left temple, he bit into his bottom lip so hard the skin broke and doused his chin with blood, his hands went clutching at his chest-

But this was different. I wasn't anticipating much residual guilt. I tried to suck some chocolate shake through a straw. Different. Except for them both being named Joe, of course.

But this Joe was subhuman. Now, I had two years of college and took a few psychology courses. So I know what the mind does. When you plan to kill somebody, you convince yourself that the guy doesn't have the right to live because he's not human; this rationalization allows you to proceed with the murder. But this was different because this guy just really wasn't human.

There were no other similarities I could recall. Except that, I remembered, I had eaten Whitey one-bites before going to see the whistleblower too. Maybe they were pre-penance. Whatever it was, I was getting too contemplative about the whole thing and had now lost my appetite and was barely able to finish the onion rings.

About an hour later, I parked two blocks away from Joe's, put on some gloves, and headed over with my satchel. No one was on the street when I entered his yard. I moved quickly to the cracked concrete path that led to the side entrance. I went up the stoop, pressed the door, and it opened. I could hear Sinatra singing about Saturday being the loneliest night of the week from somewhere in the basement. A trail of Joe's blood led from the broken windowpane and up the stairs to an open door through which I could see the kitchen. I took out my.38. I was really hoping I wouldn't have to use it-I wanted to use a knife of Joe's-but I might bump into him at any moment. I walked down the steps and gently pushed open the door which led to the garage. A CD player sat on the hood of Sucrete's Miami Beach-edition, cranberry-fed Cougar, playing Ol' Blue Eyes. There was no sign of Joe. There was, however, a taped-up garden hose running from the exhaust pipe to the driver's window of the vehicle. It never occurred to me that I might have something in common with a piece of shit like Joe, but here we were: neither one of us was planning on him living through the night.

"Peachy," I said.

I entered the kitchen, listening, and heard a shower running upstairs. I looked around. There was a brown stove and a matching fridge circa 1972. The warped laminate countertops were a faded blue. A toaster oven on the white, chipped dinette table had to have belonged to Alice on The Brady Bunch at some point in time. Scattered around the toaster oven were sheets of balled paper. I unfurled one. It was a suicide note. All it said was Goodbye, bitch. It looked like I wouldn't have to wait for the CliffsNotes. I returned the note to an orb and bocce-balled it into the others, banking it off the saltshaker.

The living room was dimly lit by a cheap, bulky candle which was burning horribly uneven and a little street light filtering through bent Venetian-blind slats. And strewn everywhere, on the worn sectional sofa, the love seat, the coffee table, and covering all of the tacky burgundy wall-to-wall carpeting, were hundreds of heart-shaped balloons stenciled I LOVE YOU. The only thing not covered with the hearts was a wobbly TV dinner/folding table, upon which the candle, and a few other mementos, stood. There was a piece of paper under the candle. I bent over to look. It was their marriage certificate, covered in dark red wax. The wax had also adhered his marriage band to the document. On the bottom of the certificate was a childish scrawl in black Sharpie: Its All For You, Darling! The only other thing on the table was a bloodied paring knife. Its All For You, Darling! That kind of shit drove me crazy. You'd think the fucker would try to be grammatically correct for the last and most important memo of his life. I found the Sharpie on a nearby end table and added an apostrophe.

The running water was louder from here. I looked at the staircase leading to the second floor, and waded through the balloons.

I found him dangling in the bathroom, naked down to his shorts, a brown extension cord wrapped around his neck and tied to the shower fixture. His left leg was hanging straight down to the drain, but his right had shot over the side of the tub, wedging his foot between porcelain and sink. Though skunk drunk, he must've panicked at the moment of truth-his right hand had gone up and worked its way under the cord, three fingers stuck underneath it. The tub was about half full. Some people might've seen it as being half empty, but I was seeing no reason for pessimism. I pocketed my gun with a smile and a dimple on my right cheek.

I took it all in.

"Never wear white underwear to your own suicide, Joe."

At the sound of his name, his body suddenly spazzed. He kicked out violently, wrenching the shower fixture out of the wall, which sent him down into the tub, smashing his head viciously against its side when he landed. Water spewed out of the broken wall fixture. Joe gagged and pulled himself over the tub's side and collapsed onto the shower mat, motionless. Since he was lying on his side, I saw what he had been doing with the paring knife. On his right shoulder there was a butchered flap of skin hanging loosely from his flesh where her name was tattooed, presumably during happier times. He had done a half-ass job. The story of his life.

"Joe?"

He raised his head, gagged, and spewed vomit over the little bathroom rug-blood and macaroni and cheese, from what I could see.

"Joe?"

He was barely able to lift up his head to look at me, and his eyes were barely open due to the blood and hard water.

"Is it you? Finally?" he grumbled. "Jesus?"

And I said, "Sure."

Fifteen minutes later we had a pretty solid God/Sinner rapport going on and Joe was giving me the lowdown on his exit strategy. I asked why he hadn't just gassed himself in the garage. He said he was just turning the engine over when he decided he needed a purifying shower. In the shower, he just went with the hanging, a spur-of-the-moment kind of thing.

"She always said I wasn't spontaneous."

I almost felt sympathy: they were always saying that.

I convinced him that the gassing was still a good plan, and with me coaching, he began to crawl back to the basement. We were out of the bathroom and halfway down the dark hall to the stairs that were barely illuminated by the bathroom light at the other end. He stopped and buried his head in the hallway carpeting.

"Help, help me, Jesus. I've been… waiting."

He lay there in his soiled underwear, half pulled down to his butt crack from the crawling. I was pretty sure I was about to pity him when I caught my reflection in a hallway mirror, and even though it was dark, much darker than usual, I also knew it was God's reflection too, and the one thing I did know about the two of us was that we pitied nobody.

I crouched down.

"Listen, Joe. You know the rules. Jesus only helps those who help themselves. Or God. One of the two. You've got to help yourself."

"Jesus, Jesus, your breath stinks of onions."

"I had some White Castle on the way over."

"Don't you know what that crap does to your body?"

"Hey, Joe, I'm a bachelor. My whole diet consists of takeout. Let's not get too critical of the Lord, here. What?"

His eyes filled with mistrust. "You… look like Jesus. But you don't dress like him."

Great, this is going to blow up now because I'm on Blackstone's 10 Worst-Dressed Messiahs list. Without even thinking, my left hand went into my jacket and felt the butt of the gun.

But then I said, "Joe, I can't go around in my normal work clothes-you don't want to get me crucified again, do you?"

He thought about it, "No, of course not, Jesus. Still…"

I stood up.

"Fine. I'm leaving." I walked away.

He cried, "Don't abandon me, Jesus! How can you abandon me?"

"Listen, Joe, if I only help those who help themselves, doesn't it stand to reason that I abandon those that abandon themselves, their goals, their God-given destinies?"

"This is my destiny?"

"Sure!"

"Okay." He sighed.

Wet and bloodied, stinking of booze, he crawled again, this time making it to the landing.

He cried, "No, no, no, no," he sobbed, "I can't-I can't go to you, not with her name."

"Forget her. Remember who you are, Joe, but mostly remember who I am. I am, you know, who am."

For a moment he was filled with faith. But then-"It's on my back! Her name! And I can't get it off! It will always be a part of me unless it's not!"

I took my name in vain. "Okay, change of plans. Get your ass back into the tub. I'll get the paring knife."

That seemed to placate him. He smiled and his eyes welled up.

I went downstairs. He called to me twice while I was collecting the knife from the living room and that relic of a toaster oven from the kitchen, but I decided to go deep into character and not answer. He was in the tub when I got back up.

"Good boy."

He beamed at me. I plugged the oven into the extension cord and ran it over to the outlet above the medicine cabinet. The water already covered his legs.

"Her name."

"I'll help you with that."

"I thought I had to help myself."

"Hey." He was really starting to irk me. "What's my name?"

He told me and calmed down by reiterating it. I gave him a toothbrush to put between his teeth. I went to work on his back, sucking my own bile back down, and as luck would have it, he shivered, convulsed, and lost consciousness as the blade found the corner of the flap of skin he'd been working on. I could faintly make out the CD player in the basement. It must've been on repeat; it kept playing that same Sinatra song over and over. I was feeling even queasier now as I finished flaying off his skin, could feel the burgers getting ready for their second coming. I was pretty sure Sinatra was going to be ruined for me forever too. I finished up, shaking but not vomiting.

I sat down, my back against the tub, and closed my eyes.

"Shit, there was nothing about this in that Real Estate Investing for Dummies book, shit."

Joe was stirring again.

I got up.

"Now, just stay there, Joe. And close your eyes. Joe? Joe?"

He whispered something. I had to lean in.

"Do you-do, do you think she'll know? That it's all for her?"

"I think you've made that pretty clear."

I handed him the toaster oven. I depressed the switch to the on position, and for some unfathomable reason turned the dial to Bagel. I went over to the outlet and picked up the other end of that suicide cord. He raised the toaster over his head.

"I'm ready when you are, Jesus."

"Well, okay, then."

His eyes popped open. "Wait!"

"What?"

"I did want her to see me in her car, dead. We had some good memories in that car."

"We all have to get over the past, Joe. That's what Dr. Phil says."

"I like Dr. Phil."

"It's good television."

"Wait!" He lowered the toaster several inches.

"What now?"

"Up there. Who's to hang with? People… people like me?"

Poor Joe. I knew exactly what he needed to hear right then.

"I only handle the day-to-day down here, Joe. My father-our Father-runs the shop upstairs. You let him worry about sorting out the queers and the wife-beaters. Now buck up and get ready."

He arched his back, getting ready. There was pounding at the front door, someone screamed Joe's name. I looked at Joe and he looked at me.

"I called a couple of friends. Earlier. I thought I might do something stupid tonight."

God, I thought, he wanted someone to stop him.

But that wasn't me.

I plugged him in.

"I'm the only friend you'll ever need. In the name of the father, and of the son: dunk."

He closed his eyes and whispered, "Amen. And here I come!"

He dunked, sparks flew as he fried, and the lights blew out in the entire house.

"Jesus!" a man's voice screamed from outside.

I could hear him kicking at the front door. I put my hand out to the walls and started to make my way out into the hallway.

"The lights, Trini, the lights! Oh, Jesus!" the voice cried again.

"All right, that's the name," I whispered. "Don't wear it out."

It was almost as if the Holy Spirit, who hadn't gotten any billing yet, spoke to me: I took my hand away from the wall and put it out to the darkness, and I found my way downstairs without a trip or stumble.

"The side door's open, Manny!" another voice screamed.

I quickly blew out the candle on the little table.

I sat down in the darkness. It seemed very familiar.

My right hand rested on a heart next to me on the sofa, my left on the gun in my lap.

The man and the woman crashed through the kitchen and then into the living room, bumping into things, cursing.

I sat perfectly still. The woman was crying. Joe had someone who cared-amazing.

"Oh, Manny!"

"I hear water running. Upstairs! Stay here!"

"Manny!"

"Stay here!"

Manny went upstairs. I could hear her stepping closer to me, and suddenly she tripped over something and landed on the sectional, mere feet from me. The gun, pointed roughly at the sound of her breathing, became a part of my extended arm; both were rigid and cold now, my finger on the trigger. Somewhere in some separate part of me I thought: I won't ever even know what color her eyes were.

She sat for a moment, still, then whispered, "Something's here. Dios mio."

A scream of "Ahhh Gawd!!!" came from upstairs, and Trini bolted away from me and the sofa, stumbling up the stairs, screaming Manny's name.

Still holding a heart, I put the gun away, threw my bag over my shoulder, unlatched the front door, and slipped out of the house. A couple of lights in nearby houses were on now-we only ever once get the full darkness we ask for-and I moved quickly to the sidewalk and away.

At the van, I took off the latex gloves.

"Jesus needs a smoke," I sighed.

I went to a Cuban deli and bought us each a pack.

I went by Denny's Brooklyn office on Monday. The Red Hook area was showing slow signs of gentrification. It had once been labeled the "crack capital of America," but now they had an Ikea. For most of the residents, I imagine the reality was somewhere in the middle: you can buy your nice red Ektorp sofa, but you might get raped on it by the time you got it home.

Denny was on the loading platform yelling at a bunch of laborers, some Pakistanis whose names he didn't even know. His back stiffened when he laid eyes on me; he put on his most superficial, full-of-shit Denny smile, and raised a finger in the air indicating he'd be with me in one minute. He turned his attention back to his workers, making sure the three men secured some scaffolding equipment properly to the roof of one of his vans. He looked at a knot and shook his head.

"That's gonna roll off on the BQE and decapitate somebody. Look, Charlie…"

"My name is not Charlie, sir," the man told him.

"You work for me, right? Then you're Charlie One, he's Charlie Two, and he's Charlie Three. Understand?"

He came over to me and shook my hand. "You shaved off the beard."

"I had an epiphany."

"What was that?"

"It was itchy."

He looked around his warehouse.

"I ought to get a new place. This one is falling apart. I got to go take a look at the chimney. Somebody's complaining it's about to fall down to the street. Come on."

We took a staircase to the roof. A couple of Puerto Ricans, who were fast at work on the chimney, got barked at; I made my way to the edge and looked at the Manhattan cityscape, all those tall buildings except for those two that were still missing. It was windy, and when I put my bag down, I made sure it was tight between my ankles.

Denny came over to the edge with me.

"Hey, you know that thing that I mentioned to you? It actually resolved itself."

"Did it?"

"Yeah. She'll be safe now. Turns out he was really only a threat to himself. And what a threat. I mean, you should have heard the details."

"The devil's in them."

"All for the best. No outside, you know, intervention."

"You know, Denny, some people need a helping hand. In life. And death."

His brow furrowed. "What are you saying?"

"I'm not religious, but maybe when people pray for help, sometimes it just shows up at their door. In Queens even."

"I don't stay in business by paying people for work they haven't done, Brian."

"I would think, just on the basis of our long friendship, you'd grant me the courtesy of believing in such divine interventions."

"But this wasn't about friendship. Or courtesy. It was a business contract, for-" he glanced over to his employees at the chimney, but they barely spoke English anyway, and he took out his finger quotes-"for 'facade restoration.' And there's no proof you performed any of the contracted work. Are you really asking me to believe"-his voice went lower-"what… He didn't kill himself?"

"Oh, he committed suicide. Let's not take that away from him."

He looked at his watch. And offered to take me to lunch later. "I'm more than willing to fairly compensate for whatever time you spent… estimating."

"I have a flight to catch. You know, people who really believe, they don't need proof. But maybe it helps to alleviate doubt."

He was barely listening.

"Well, I got to go and see Sucrete anyways. She's pretty upset. I mean, she wanted him out of her life, but she's not without a… What's in the bag?"

"It's Valentine's Day, Denny."

"I know that, Brian."

"And Joe wanted her to have a final gift from him. Go ahead and open it. I can rewrap."

Denny turned to his workers. "Vamoose! Get the other van ready to go!"

They made their way to the roof door and left.

I picked up the bag and held it open. Denny retrieved the red, satiny-papered box from within. He held it in his hands. He ripped the paper off and let it drop. I shot my foot out to it, saving it from the wind. I lit a cigarette up as he gingerly opened the lid. I peeked over his shoulder, still somewhat marveled by its contents. Inside, one of those red balloon hearts sat, still completely inflated, and Scotch-taped three times around its center was a small swath of flayed skin with a woman's name on it. He took a step away from me.

"Denny."

He turned, looked at me. I kicked the wrapping paper his way.

"Litter."

Denny picked it up, hands compressing, crushing it into the reddest, bloodiest of balls, while all signs of blood drained from his face. He slowly made his way over to the chimney, put his back against it, and slid down to the asphalt-covered roof. He held on to the box with his right hand, its lid still open, keeping it in his lap, and his other hand went to the guy wires secured to the chimney. He closed his eyes. On the street below, Sinatra was singing on a car radio about making it here and therefore anywhere. I felt a warm sensation.

I crouched down in front of Denny. He refused to look at me, eyes still closed; he seemed to be growing smaller and smaller.

I whispered, "And Sucrete-foe told me she's got a birthday coming up too, doesn't she? I'm sorry, did I say this was a final gift?"

I removed the lit cigarette from my mouth and pressed its red hot tip against the balloon. When it burst, he shuddered, his eyes popped open, and they found me only-and I felt sorry for him. We had been friends once, maybe that was why. Or maybe being Christ for a night had made me soft. Softer.

So I provided for my old friend. Everybody always does for Denny.

"Hey? That bartender? She wears her ring around her neck. On a chain. FYI."