Twisted City

LEAVING THE INTERVIEW with Robert Lipton, the CEO of Byron Technologies, I wrote the lead to my article in my head:

After Byron Technologies' dismal first half performance, analysts will search for signs of life in the company's third quarter earnings report, but the bottom line could be the end of the line for this floundering tech start-up.

Actually, I could've gone either way on Byron. While the company had decent quarter-to-quarter revenue growth and showed increasing sales, their cash-burn rate was out of control and they were losing a ton of money.

Lipton seemed like a good guy and I would've liked to write an article with a positive spin, but Jeff Sherman, the wonderful editor-in-chief of Manhattan Business magazine, had a rule no more than three positive articles in a row. Since my last three articles had been favorable, this one had to be a bashing.

Waiting for the elevator on the twenty-ninth floor of the Seventh Avenue office building, I noticed a woman standing to my right. She was a few years younger than me, maybe thirty-two, with short, stylishly cut red hair and pale, lightly freckled skin. She had a slender, attractive build and was wearing a black designer business suit. Something about her appearance reminded me of my sister, Barbara.

I wasn't planning on saying anything to the woman, but she caught me staring at her and I smiled instinctively. When she smiled back I said, "Hi, how's it going?"

"Good," she said. "Thanks."

We both looked up at the digital numbers indicating the building's floors. I continued to look over at her, still thinking about my sister. When we made eye contact again I said, "Long day, huh?"

"Yeah," she said, blushing.

There was another awkward silence as I noticed that the ring finger on her left hand was bare. When she looked at me again I said, "Do you want to go for a drink?"

I wasn't usually impulsive, and the question surprised me as much as it did her. She hesitated for a few seconds, sizing me up. I guess I didn't look like a serial killer, because she said, "Okay. Sure."

We got on the elevator together and talked some more. Her name was Heather. She was a marketing exec at an ad agency. When I told her I was a reporter for Manhattan Business she seemed surprisingly interested, asking me a lot of questions about my job. We left the building and headed downtown on Seventh Avenue. It was starting to get dark.

"So where are we going?" Heather asked me.

"There's this Scottish bar on Forty-fourth," I said.

"Okay," she said.

We continued talking, mostly about our jobs. Our arms brushed a few times and she didn't seem to mind. Waiting for a traffic light to change, we stood face-to-face for a few seconds. She had light blue eyes that went well with her hair. I decided she was Irish, or part Irish. I realized she looked nothing like my sister, who had dark, wavy hair and dark eyes like me.

The front of St. Andrews was smoky and noisy. It seemed like an office party was going on, because everyone was in business suits and seemed to know each other. We wove our way to the back and settled onto two available stools at the bar. A bartender wearing a dark-green-and-navy-plaid kilt took our drink order a pint of Guinness for me, a bottle of Corona for her.

"So where're you from?" Heather asked.

"Originally, Long Island," I said. "You?"

"Westchester," she said.

"Really. What part?"

"Ever heard of Hartsdale?"

"Sure," I said. "I went to school with a couple guys from around there. You know Mike Goldberg?"

"No."

"Stu Fox?"

"No."

"Oh, well."

The bartender brought our drinks. I gave him fifteen bucks and told him to keep the change.

I sipped my beer, then said, "You know what's funny? When I first saw you, you reminded me of my sister."

"Really?"

"Yeah," I said, "but the thing is you look nothing like her."

"I guess it's just one of those things," she said, smiling. She took a sip of beer, crossing her slender legs, then said, "So does your sister live in the city?"

"Yeah," I said. "I mean, no. I mean, she used to live in the city.

She died fourteen months ago."

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

I sipped my beer, realizing that my palms were sweaty.

"You know what I think?" she said. "I think when people die they stay with the people they loved for eternity."

"You mean like ghosts?"

"Or spirits. Or just an energy. I don't believe there's any such thing as dying."

"I like that idea," I said.

We looked into each other's eyes for a few seconds, then laughed nervously at the same time. I liked Heather and I could tell she liked me too.

We finished our beers and ordered another round. Over half an hour went by and the conversation was still lively. I didn't want to hit on her too hard, but I also didn't want to give her the idea I wasn't interested. So at an appropriate time, after she said something funny and I laughed, I casually rested my right hand on her left leg. Right away I knew I'd blown it. She immediately crossed her legs, rotated away from me on her bar stool, and checked her watch. I tried to make more conversation, pretend nothing had happened, but she stopped talking. A few minutes later she said she had forgotten that her cousin was coming over to her apartment tonight and she had to meet her. I tried to talk her into staying, but she thanked me for the drinks and left the bar quickly.

Finishing my second pint alone, I felt like a moron. A nice girl like Heather probably dated guys ten times before sleeping with them, and I had started pawing at her like a horny teenager. If I'd just played it cool, maybe asked for her number or suggested meeting for lunch sometime, maybe it could have led to something.

I ordered another pint, feeling like even more of a jerk.

I had a deadline at two p.m. tomorrow for my article, but I wasn't ready to leave the bar. As I was nursing my third Guinness, the drunk-looking guy with long, stringy brown hair who had sat on Heather's vacated bar stool stuck out his big sweaty hand and said,

"Eddie. Eddie Lomack."

Normally I hated when drunks talked to me at bars, and I would have ignored Eddie, but my own good drunk feeling was starting to set in, so I had more patience than usual.

"David," I said without shaking his hand.

"David," he said. "That's a good name. Simple, anyway. Don't gotta spell it out for people a lot."

"That's true," I said, wishing I'd kept my mouth shut.

"People don't ask me to spell my name either," Eddie slurred. "I just say my name's Eddie and that's good enough for them." He laughed. "So what happened with that girl you were talkin' to?"

"Girl?"

"The hot little redhead who was just here."

"There was a hot little redhead here?"

"Come on, I saw you walk in together; then she got up and left. What the hell happened?"

"Oh, her," I said. "She was late for an appointment."

Eddie gave me a long, drunken stare, his eyes looking like they weren't firm in their sockets, and then he said, "Late for an appointment, my ass. She ran out on you, didn't she?"

"Let's just say there was no love connection," I said.

Eddie laughed, more than necessary. I shifted my stool away from him to avoid being hit by saliva, and then I looked at my half-full pint, deciding I'd leave as soon as it was gone.

"Who needs her?" Eddie said when he was through laughing. "You can do better than that, my man. Hey, you wanna see a picture of my girlfriend?"

Eddie leaned back, wobbling so much he almost fell off the stool. After he steadied himself, he reached into his pocket and took out his wallet. He opened it to a picture of a naked blond centerfold.

"Pretty good-lookin', huh?" he said. Then he said, "Oh, and here's my other girlfriend."

He opened his wallet to a picture of another naked blonde.

I smiled and took another gulp of my beer; then I put the glass down on the bar, deciding that I'd had enough. I reached into my right pocket to leave a tip for the bartender when I realized my wallet was gone. I felt my other pockets, but the wallet wasn't there either. I checked all my pockets again, then looked around on the floor near my bar stool.

"What's wrong?" Eddie asked.

"I can't find my wallet," I said.

Eddie started looking around too as I stood up, feeling my pockets again. Then the realization set in that I had been pick pocketed I suddenly felt hot all over and I became even more frantic.

One of the Scottish bartenders came over and asked me what was wrong.

"Somebody stole my wallet," I said.

"You sure?" he asked.

"Yes, I'm sure!" I shouted.

Now other people nearby were looking over, and a couple of college-age guys started searching on the floor.

Eddie was still looking around too, and then it hit me what had happened.

"Give me my wallet back," I said to Eddie.

He gave me a drunken stare, then said, "The fuck you talkin' about?"

"Come on, I know you took it," I said, "or you were working with somebody who took it." I looked around, but there was no one suspicious-looking nearby. I turned back to Eddie and said, "Give me my fucking wallet back."

A big surly-looking guy with a blond crew cut and bulging muscles squeezed into a tight black T-shirt came over. I figured he was the bouncer. "There a problem here?" he said.

"Yeah, there's a fuckin' problem here," I said. "This guy stole my wallet."

"I didn't steal nobody's wallet," Eddie said.

"He's lying," I said.

Eddie started taking things out of his pockets his keys, change, crumpled up bills, his own wallet.

"See?" Eddie said. "Where do you think I got his wallet, up my ass?"

"Why do you think he took your wallet?" the bouncer said to me.

"Maybe he didn't take it, but someone else did," I said, "somebody he was working with. He was distracting me while his friend took my wallet."

"I wasn't distracting nobody," Eddie said. "I was just sitting here, minding my own, then he starts screaming I took his wallet."

"Did you see him with a friend in the bar?" the bouncer asked me.

"No, I didn't see him," I said, "but that's what happened. Can't you call the cops or something?"

Eddie stood up off his bar stool.

"Hey, enough'a this shit, all right?" he said. "I didn't take your fuckin' wallet."

"Yes you did," I said.

"You callin' me a fuckin' liar?"

"Yes."

"Fuck you, asshole."

I pushed Eddie, not hard, but hard enough to knock him back a few steps. But he was so drunk or faking drunk that he fell backward, knocking over the bar stool and spilling his beer onto the woman to his right. The woman's boyfriend started shouting at Eddie, and the bouncer grabbed my arm and pulled me through the crowd toward the front of the bar.

"What the hell're you doing?" I said. "Let go of me."

He didn't let go until we were outside.

"The guy took my wallet," I said, "I'm telling you."

"I don't give a shit about your wallet," the bouncer said. "There's no fightin' in the bar. Now get the hell outta here 'fore I call the cops!"

The bouncer went back inside. A couple of seconds later Eddie came out. He looked at me, then headed away toward Sixth Avenue.

"Please," I said, walking next to him, "I don't want to fight with you, okay, and I don't want to call the cops either I just want my wallet back. You can keep the money, all right? I just want my credit cards and ID and everything else."

Eddie stopped and turned to face me.

"For the last fuckin' time, I don't have your fuckin' wallet," he said, spraying spit in my face with each F sound, "so just leave me the fuck alone."

Watching Eddie walk away, I tried to decide what to do. I could call the cops on my cell phone, but by the time they came Eddie would be gone. Besides, from the position he'd been sitting, Eddie couldn't have taken the wallet himself his partner had to have taken it, and by now his partner was probably long gone.

Then there was the chance that I was wrong about Eddie altogether that he'd had nothing to do with it.

I decided that calling the cops would be a waste of time. I'd spend the whole night filling out forms for nothing, because they wouldn't make any effort to catch a pickpocket. I walked to the corner and checked the garbage can, figuring that the thief might have taken the cash and dumped everything else nearby. My wallet wasn't in the top layer of garbage in any of the garbage cans around the intersection of Forty-fourth Street and Sixth Avenue. I walked around the block, checking other garbage cans, finding nothing. Finally, I decided it was hopeless. The pickpocket could have dumped my wallet down a sewer, or anywhere.

I only had forty-five cents on me, so I couldn't take a bus or the subway. Walking home along Seventh Avenue, I took out my cell phone and got the numbers for my bank and credit card companies, and then I started closing my accounts.

DURING THE HALF-HOUR-OR-SO walk to my apartment on West Eighty-first Street, I froze my bank account and closed my credit card accounts, relieved to find out that nothing had been charged on any of my cards.

I'd heard horror stories about identity theft, so later I'd have to call the credit bureaus and report that my wallet had been stolen.

Then, tomorrow, I'd try to replace my more minor cards Blockbuster, United Health Care, the New York Public Library, Duane Reade Dollar Rewards Club and deal with the headache of replacing my Social Security card and driver's license.

As usual, when I entered my apartment hip-hop music was blasting and the living room reeked of pot. I was slightly surprised, because Rebecca had said she was going to be out for the night.

"I'm home!" I called down the hallway, toward the bedroom, but I doubted she could hear me over the pulsing music.

I went into the narrow kitchen. There had been a six pack of Amstel in the fridge this morning, but now there was just an empty carton.

"Sorry, yo, we got thirsty."

I looked over and saw Ray, one of Rebecca's dancing friends, standing there, smiling by the entrance to the kitchen. Ray was a clean-cut Latino guy and he was dressed in tight pants and a tight, ribbed, Ricky Martin-style T-shirt, showing off his lean, ripped body. Rebecca claimed Ray was gay, but I hoped she was lying. If she left me for Ray or somebody else it would've solved a lot of problems.

"It's okay," I said. "I probably shouldn't drink any more tonight anyway."

"You out partying?" Ray said, his eyes glassy from the pot he'd smoked. "Say it ain't so."

"I just had a couple beers," I said.

"Still," Ray said. "We should call Eyewitness News down here to do a story. David Miller gets fucked up details at eleven."

I was used to being the butt of jokes for Ray and Rebecca's other friends; because I held a steady job and didn't drink a lot or do drugs they treated me like I was Mr. Rogers.

As Ray laughed, I took out a carton of orange juice from the fridge and gulped some from the spout.

"Seriously," Ray said, "sorry about the beer, yo, but we needed to get a buzz on for tonight. But don't worry 'bout it next time I come by I'll bring you another sixer."

Whenever Ray came over he drank my beer or ate food from the fridge and always promised to replace it, but never did. At this point it was like a running joke.

I was still guzzling orange juice when Rebecca sashayed into the kitchen. She was twenty-four, and there was no doubt she was hot. She had wavy brown hair that went halfway down her back, a fit, slender body, and small, doll-like features. Whenever people asked her what she did for a living she always answered, "I'm a modern dancer," which used to impress me, until I saw her dance. A few weeks after we met, I went to a showcase that she and her friends were putting on at a space they rented out downtown, and I was surprised by how awkward and ungraceful she was. After that night, it became painful to hear her talk about her dancing, taking it so seriously, when I knew she was deluding herself. She blew off most of her dance classes and auditions, sleeping through the alarm clock, or just not bothering to show up. The only dancing she did on a regular basis was when she went out to clubs and partied with her friends four or five nights a week.

"I thought I heard your voice," she said. "What up, yo?"

Rebecca was originally from Duncanville, Texas, then she lived in L.A. for several years before moving to New York. She had a faint Texas accent and spoke in Southern Californian, slash Manhattan, slash twenty-something up speak making the ends of most of her sentences sound like questions. She also used a lot of pseudo hip-hop slang, which most of the time sounded forced and stupid a white girl from down south trying too hard to fit in in the big city. I used to think her style of speaking was cute; now, like a lot of other things about her, it just annoyed the hell out of me.

But, I had to admit, she looked especially hot tonight in skintight jeans, a pink halter top, and matching pink sandals. I had never seen the sandals before and I realized why my Visa card had a $124 charge on it from a purchase made this afternoon at Wheels of London, a shoe store on Eighth Street.

She came over and kissed me on the lips, slipping her studded-tongue into my mouth for a second or two. She tasted like a bong hit.

Then she pulled back and said, "How was your day, cutie?"

"All right," I said.

"The business writer was out lettin' his hair down tonight," Ray said.

Rebecca looked at me with an intrigued smile. "Are you drunk?"

"No, I just had a couple beers with the CEO I was interviewing."

"Oh, how did that go?"

"It went okay," I said. "I mean, I think I got all the information I need for my article."

"Good, I'm so happy for you," she said.

"So what's this about a party tonight?" I asked.

"Oh, it was kind of a last-minute thing. Rachel told me about it this afternoon. Her manager's friend is this, like, famous clothing designer or something? Anyway, he's having this big party at this new club in Soho tonight it should be slammin'. Wanna come?"

I knew she didn't really want me to go if she did I wouldn't have had to basically invite myself but I wouldn't" ve gone if she begged me.

When Rebecca and I first met and I was excited about dating her, I used to go out clubbing and bar hopping with her and her friends all the time. It was fun the first couple of times dressing up like an MTV groupie in FUBU jerseys, Snoop Dogg jeans, and other clothes Rebecca bought for me. But after a while I started feeling ridiculous the old guy in his mid-thirties out with a bunch of kids in their early twenties and Rebecca started going out without me.

"I'd love to," I said, "but I have a deadline for tomorrow afternoon."

"Blow it off," Rebecca said, acting disappointed.

"Sorry, can't," I said.

"Well, I'm gonna miss you." She kissed me again, making out with me for a few seconds. When she broke away she said to Ray, "Ready to go, cuz?"

"After you, baby," Ray said, smiling widely as he put his arm around her waist.

As Rebecca was leaving the kitchen, I said, "By the way, your credit cards won't work tonight."

Rebecca stopped and turned around, suddenly panicked. "Why not?"

"I got pick pocketed "You did?" she said, sounding more concerned about her credit cards than the fact that I had been robbed.

"Yeah, it must've happened in an elevator or something," I said. "I thought I felt something, but when I realized what had happened it was too late my wallet was gone."

"That sucks," Rebecca said, still probably thinking about her credit cards. "Did you call the police?"

"For what?"

"I don't know. Just to report it?"

"They won't do anything."

"You sure?"

"He's right," Ray said. "The police won't do shit about a wallet."

"So why won't my credit cards work?" she asked.

"Well, I had to close the accounts, didn't I?" I said.

"I guess that was smart," she said. "You think you can, like, lend me some money tonight?"

Lend, I thought. That was a good one.

"The only money I have is in the dresser in the bedroom," I said. "I can't get any more until I open my bank accounts tomorrow."

Rebecca pouted. I wanted to say, "Too bad," but I guess if I had the ability to turn her down I wouldn't have let her have access to my money and credit cards in the first place.

"How much do you need?" I asked weakly.

"How much do you have?" she asked.

"I don't know. Maybe twenty bucks."

"That's if?"

"Sorry."

It felt good to put my foot down with Rebecca for once, but of course in this case it helped that I had no choice.

"Hey, I know," Rebecca said, brightening. "You keep your Discover card in the top drawer of your dresser? So that card must still work, right?"

I'd forgotten about the Discover card. I rarely used it, but Rebecca had one in her name too.

"Yeah, it works," I said.

"Slammin'!" Rebecca said. She started out of the kitchen with Ray, then turned back to me and said, "Hey, you sure you don't want to come out with us?"

"Next time," I said.

"I shouldn't be home too late," Rebecca said. "Two or three. I have my cell if you need me."

"You mean my cell," I said.

"What?" she asked, confused.

"Have a great time," I said, smiling.

When Rebecca and Ray were gone I scavenged the fridge, eating some leftover burrito from the other night and a yogurt, and then I went to the alcove in the living room and booted up my computer. The Windows wallpaper came on a picture of my sister Barbara and me, taken at Syracuse. She was a senior and I was a sophomore and we were in front of my dorm me in jeans and an Orangemen basketball jersey and her in a Lands' End sweater, a knapsack over one shoulder. She looked good in the picture, but it didn't really do her justice. She had pale skin, but the picture made it ruddier, especially around her cheeks, and she must've been having a bad hair day, because her hair looked much frizzier than it really was. I tried to remember who had taken the picture maybe Aunt Helen or a friend of Barbara's then I became distracted by the scent of Glow by J. Lo that Rebecca had left in her wake.

I opened a file in Word and worked on my article for a while, but I couldn't concentrate, thinking about the last time I saw Barbara, at Sloan-Kettering.

"You can't even look at me anymore," she said. "I disgust you."

She looked so awful half-bald from the chemo, her skin ghostly gray. It was hard to believe the tumor in her brain had been discovered only three weeks earlier.

"What're you talking about?" I said. "That's crazy."

"See? You can't even look at me right now."

I turned toward her, realizing she was crying.

"Come on, stop it," I said, getting up to find her a tissue.

"Get the hell out of here!" she screamed. "Just go!"

"Calm down, I didn't mean»

"I hate you, you son of a bitch! Just get the fuck out of here!"

I started working again, writing a line I'd insert somewhere in the story about how Byron Technologies would likely have to seek equity financing later in the year, but I couldn't focus, remembering the awful, hollow sounds the shovelfuls of dirt made against Barbara's coffin. I had been in shock during the entire funeral, unable to cry or show any emotion, and for weeks afterward I remained in a zombie like state, unwilling to accept the fact that she was dead. I stopped showing up for my job as a technology reporter at the Wall Street Journal, without giving any explanation. Eventually the paper's personnel department informed me that I had been terminated, but I didn't care. I spent most of my time in bed, lying on the couch, or wandering the streets, confronted by memories of Barbara wherever I went. Just standing on a street corner would remind me of a time we had been on that corner, and I'd remember snippets of conversations we'd had, things we'd laughed about, and the memories would be so vivid that the idea that she was dead, that I couldn't call her up on my cell phone or drop by her place to hang out, would seem incomprehensible. I remembered one Saturday afternoon, taking one of my usual long, aimless walks through Central Park. The park had as many memories as the streets, but it was a beautiful, early spring day and I needed to get on with my life. I walked to the East Side, then back through the winding paths of the Ramble, exiting onto the wooden footbridge. I'd taken a picture of Barbara on the bridge once. Holding the camera vertically, I'd knelt, shooting up at Barbara, who was posing like a fashion model with a hand on one hip and her windblown hair pushed over to one side, her image perfectly framed by the midtown skyscrapers in the distance. I continued along the path adjacent to the West Drive, and stopped for a moment past the boat landing, where people were lounging on the grass, listening to a scruffy guy playing old folk songs on an acoustic guitar. During "Moon Shadow," I remembered how Barbara had a few old, scratched-up Cat Stevens albums that I'd donated to a thrift shop with most of her other things. The memories were getting too painful, and I was about to leave when I spotted a girl on a blanket on the lawn.

The girl was wearing denim cutoffs and a red bikini top, her head tilted to the left slightly, toward the sun. She looked young, in her early twenties, and the way she was lounging, looking so relaxed and content, reminded me of all the afternoons Barbara and I had spent in the park.

I was going to walk away when the woman looked at me and smiled widely and waved. I thought it was cute the way she seemed so spontaneous and comfortable with herself, like a child almost. I smiled, realizing it was probably the first time I'd smiled in days, or even weeks. I also realized that I needed someone else in my life, that I couldn't take being alone anymore.

Without giving it any more thought, I approached the girl, figuring I'd say, Hey, don't I know you from somewhere? I knew it was a lame opening, but it had worked for me several times before, and besides, I wasn't the type of guy who could think of great, spontaneous pickup lines.

But, as it turned out, I didn't have to use any line, because the girl spoke to me first.

"Hi, I'm Rebecca."

She smiled again, and I noticed the silver stud glistening on her tongue. I'd never understood why people pierced their tongues, or any other parts of their bodies other than their earlobes, but I had to admit there was something sexy about it. She also had wide, eager eyes and a friendly smile. I stared at her for a few seconds before I said,

"Oh, I'm David," and we started talking. The conversation wasn't exactly riveting we discussed how great the weather had been so far this spring, and how pretty the lake was but I could tell she liked me.

Then the scruffy guy finished "Moon Shadow" and started "Stairway to Heaven."

"Nobody can play it like Jimmy Page," I said.

"Who?" she asked.

Okay, so there was a generation gap, but there was something intriguing about her, and at least I wasn't thinking about Barbara.

After a few minutes, she invited me to join her on her blanket. I happily accepted, and I tried my best to keep the conversation going.

Every guy has a repertoire of a few stories that he uses in an attempt to woo women, and I was no exception. I told her about the trip Barbara and I had taken to Europe one summer during college, the time a frying pan started an oil fire in my kitchen and I barely got out of my apartment alive, about the boating accident that had killed my parents when I was five, and then I went on my usual rant about how crowded Central Park was getting and how Riverside Park was much hipper. After I was through with my monologue, my mouth dry from talking so much, she told me all about the trauma of her parents' divorce and how she'd moved to California the summer after high school graduation. After living in L.A. for several years, trying to make it as a modern dancer, she moved to New York, and she was currently living on a friend's couch in Brooklyn. Although, as I spoke, she said «wow» and «awesome» at appropriate times, I knew she was barely paying attention. I wasn't offended, though, because I wasn't really listening to her either. I guess we were at that awkward, beginning stage of a relationship when you're too concerned with trying to impress the other person to really care about anything else.

I walked her out of the park, to the subway on Seventy-ninth, and asked her for her phone number. She wrote her number in eyeliner on my forearm, which I thought was cute and sexy. The next night we went out to dinner at the Cajun in Chelsea. Afterward, we went out to a club called Aria, which she obviously frequented, because all of the bouncers and bartenders called her "Becky." We danced for a couple of hours, then went back to my place and had sex. She liked to take control in bed, getting on top and pinning me down hard, and I was also really turned on by the big dragonfly tattoo just above her ass.

Over the next couple of weeks, I didn't obsess about Barbara as much, and I was able to live a normal, functional life again. I couldn't get my job back at the Journal, so I started applying for other jobs, and tried to do some freelance work on the side. Rebecca and I went out sometimes, but most nights she just came over to my place, usually late in the evening or early in the morning, to have sex. Most of my past girlfriends had been conservative in bed, so it was refreshing to be with Rebecca, who loved to bite me and talk dirty. Once in a while, she tied me up to the bedposts and spanked me.

After we'd been seeing each other for about a month, the friend whose couch Rebecca had been crashing on lost her lease, leaving Rebecca with no place to live. Figuring that she and I were practically living together anyway, I suggested she move her things over to my place until she found another apartment. I made it clear to her that I couldn't see us getting seriously involved, and she agreed that we were "just having fun." As long as we both had the same minimal expectations, I figured I had nothing to worry about.

When we'd met, Rebecca was working part-time at a coffee bar in Soho.

She got fired from her job after showing up late three mornings in a row each time, she'd been wasted or had a hangover and slept through the alarm clock so I started lending her money while she tried to find something else. We kept a tab of how much she owed me, but it was only a few hundred dollars, and I didn't really care if she paid me back.

One night, after Rebecca and I had been living together for a few weeks or so, I took her out with me to a party at my friend Keith's, a guy I knew from Syracuse. Keith and my other friends acted weird all night, and I figured they were just jealous because Rebecca was much better looking than their dates. About a week later, after work one night, I went to Ruby Foo's on Broadway to meet Keith and Mike, another friend, for dinner. When I approached the table I was surprised to see Keith and Mike seated with several of my friends, some with their wives and girlfriends. It was June and my birthday was in October, so I knew this wasn't a surprise party.

I joined them at the table and said, smiling, "Hey, what's going on?"

Everyone was friendly, but no one would explain why they were all there.

"Come on, what's this all about?" I asked.

People looked at each other, then turned to Keith for leadership. Keith stared at me for a few seconds, then said, "We're worried about you, man."

"Worried about what?" I said. I had no idea what he was talking about.

"We don't think Rebecca's right for you," he said.

I didn't know what to do, so I smiled. Everybody else remained very serious.

"You gotta be kidding me," I said. "Why isn't she right [for me?"

"We think she's dangerous," Keith said.

I laughed. Rebecca was ditzy, shallow, a little on the wild side, but dangerous?

"Dangerous?" I said.

I looked at my friend Joe, who'd brought his wife, Sharon. Then I turned toward Phil, with his girlfriend, Jane, and looked over at Tom, and Stu, and Mark, and Rob, but no one would crack a smile.

"So what is this," I said, "some kind of intervention?"

"We're doing it for your own good, my brother," Phil said.

Since Phil had gotten a job in the marketing department at Jive Records he had started calling everybody "my brother."

"Look, I'm sorry if you guys didn't hit it off with Rebecca," I said,

"but I really don't think it's any of your business."

"She's psycho," Joe said.

"Psycho?" I said. "How is she psycho?"

"Didn't you hear what she said to me the other night?" Sharon said.

I remembered how at the party Rebecca had had a few too many and had argued with Sharon, calling her "a dumb, ugly bitch."

"So her drinking gets a little out of hand sometimes," I said.

"She said she wanted to slit my throat," Sharon said.

"She didn't mean it," I said. "Come on, you guys have never gotten drunk?"

I was looking in particular at Tom, infamous for drinking sixteen bottles of Rolling Rock one night freshman year.

"I saw her doing coke in the bathroom," Keith said.

"So what's a little coke?" I said. "Come on, Keith, man.

I remember in college, you used to make runs into the city all the time for coke and 'shrooms."

"That was the eighties," Keith said, as if that explained everything.

"We're doing this for your own good," Mike said. "We think the girl's got some serious problems and you're gonna get hurt."

"You have no idea what you're talking about," I said.

"You're hiding from yourself emotionally," Jane said.

Phil and Jane had been going out for about six months, and I barely knew her. She was going for her Ph.D. in psychology at the New School, so of course she thought she had all the answers.

"Oh, am I?" I said.

"You haven't fully dealt with your emotions about your sister's death," she continued. "You're only in this relationship with Rebecca because it's a convenient place to hide. You're very vulnerable right now, and you're probably not even aware of what you're doing."

"You don't even know me," I said. "Who the fuck do you think you are?"

"Chill, my brother," Phil said.

"I appreciate your concern," I said to everyone, "but I think you're all a bunch of assholes."

I stormed out of the restaurant. The next day, Keith left a message for me at work, apologizing for organizing the intervention, but reminding me that it was for my own good. I didn't bother returning the call.

Over the next couple of months, I fell out of touch with most of my friends, but I stayed with Rebecca. Freelancing wasn't working out, and supporting Rebecca was seriously depleting my bank account, so when I was offered a job at Manhattan Business for roughly half of what I'd been making at the Journal, I had no choice but to take it. Rebecca went about her routine shopping during the day and going out with her friends at night, and I went about mine working during the day and into the early evening, and hanging out in my apartment the rest of the time, or occasionally going to a movie alone. Once in a while, Rebecca and I went out to dinner together or hung out in the living room, watching TV, but otherwise the only times we saw each other were when we were having sex. Our romps became even wilder and more adventurous.

Sometimes she left me tied up to the bedposts for hours while she went out shopping, and I often wound up with cuts and bruises.

Occasionally, after one of our early-morning sessions, Rebecca got very intense and melodramatic, telling me about how traumatic it was for her when her father left her mother just packing up one day and leaving without any warning and how she'd always been terrified of men abandoning her. Whenever Rebecca talked like this I couldn't help feeling trapped. I knew that Rebecca and I had no future together, and I began to dread the inevitable day when I would tell her it was over.

Then, one night in bed, Rebecca started nibbling on my ear playfully and asked me if I could see the two of us getting married someday. Of course the answer was definitely no, but, caught off guard, I changed the subject. The next day, she didn't mention marriage again, but I decided that things were starting to get a little too serious and it was time to call it quits.

When I came home from work, I told her there was something important we needed to discuss.

"What?" she asked.

In gym shorts and a sports bra, doing crunches on the living room floor, she looked especially hot. As usual, rap was blasting on the stereo.

When I turned down the throbbing music she said, "Hey, that was my boy Jay-Z."

"Last night," I said, trying to avoid eye contact, "you said something about us getting married."

"I did?" she said, acting surprised.

"Yeah, you did," I said.

"That's so funny, I was probably half-asleep." She held up her head and chest off the floor, her face turning pink as she tightened her abs for several seconds, and then she relaxed.

"What I'm trying to say," I said, "is at this point in my life I don't think I'm really ready to»

"Don't worry, I didn't mean it," she said.

"You didn't?"

"Of course not. Why would I want to be somebody's wife?" She made the idea sound ridiculous.

"Oh," I said, "because last night you»

"You shouldn't believe everything I tell you," she said.

We continued to live together and nothing really changed. She went out to hip-hop clubs and bars at least a few nights a week and we hardly spent any time together. She made more passing comments about marriage usually when she was drunk or on whatever drug was fashionable that week, but sometimes she was completely sober. Whenever I confronted her about it she always claimed that she didn't remember saying it or that she didn't really mean it.

Then, one night, I overheard Rebecca in the living room bragging to her friend Monique about how I was "a little puppy dog," and how well she had trained me. She said she could get me to do anything, even paint her toenails, and she predicted that by next year we'd be engaged with a joint bank account and her name on the lease.

I felt like an idiot for letting Rebecca use me and take advantage of me for all of these months. When Monique left, I marched into the living room, prepared to tell Rebecca to move the hell out. But when I was about to. speak, I imagined what it would be like if she left I'd be alone again, wandering the streets.

Rebecca asked me what was wrong and I said, "Nothing. Coming to bed soon?" And a few days later I was ordering her credit cards in her name.

I typed the first sentence of my Byron Technologies article and continued outlining the rest of it. In the opening, I'd describe Robert Lipton, the CEO, as «desperate» and describe how he had "irresponsibly deceived investors by pursuing an unrealistic business plan." Then I'd go on about how the company had been rapidly losing market share and was likely to file for Chapter Eleven by year's end.

While the article wouldn't be totally inaccurate Byron did have some major financial problems, and I had some serious doubts about the long-term viability of the company it still bothered me that I couldn't write a fair story, outlining the negatives and positives and letting the readers reach their own conclusions. But Jeff Sherman hated lukewarm articles and insisted that in order for the magazine to stay "edgy," reporters had to write strongly opinionated articles no matter what. The other day, when he'd called me into his office and reminded me that I'd written three "puff pieces" in a row and that my Byron Technologies article had to be negative, I told him that I didn't think, in this case, a negative article was justified. He told me,

"You don't like the rules? Maybe you'd be happier working someplace else." I would've loved to tell him to go fuck himself, but the job market was tight and, especially with the way Rebecca had been spending my money lately, I couldn't afford to be unemployed.

I was typing so hard my wrists hurt. I took a break, flexing my hands, and then patted my front pants pocket where my wallet had been. A sudden, sickening emptiness overtook me, and I rushed down the hallway to the bedroom. I spilled out the contents of the top drawer of my dresser onto the bed and searched through everything, hoping by some crazy chance it would be there. But after looking through the stuff for the second and third times I realized I was just deluding myself my favorite picture of Barbara, that I'd taken when she was sixteen, was gone.

I started crying. Not just crying bawling. Everything the stress of the whole night, my screwed up relationship with Rebecca, missing Barbara more than I had in months was hitting me at once. As I sat on the bed, sobbing, taking short, erratic breaths, I imagined that Barbara was with me. She was sitting next to me on the bed, putting an arm around my shoulders, telling me, Don't worry, Davey. Everything's gonna be okay.

Then I remembered what Heather had said to me in the bar about spirits.

I didn't really believe in any of that metaphysical crap, but, figuring I had nothing to lose, I said to the empty space to my left, "I just want you to know how much I miss you. I think about you a lot, all the time actually, and I wanted to tell you how sorry I am for not saying good-bye to you that day at the hospital, and for acting like such a dick the whole time you were there. But I think you know how much you really meant to me. If you didn't know it, I hope you know it now. I loved you, Barb. I thought you were the greatest sister in the world.

I hope you can hear me now, that I'm not just talking to myself. But you're not fucking here, are you?"

I stood up and swatted everything from the bed onto the floor and screamed, "Damn it!" Then, looking down among the contents of the dumped-out dresser drawer, I noticed a snapshot of Rebecca taken in front of the fireplace in the living room. She was standing sideways to the camera in cutoffs and a little-boy T-shirt, her hair flung over to the left side, her lips pursed in an I'm-better-than-you way. The flash had reddened her eyes, giving her a devilish quality.

I left the apartment, not even bothering to take a jacket, and headed toward Central Park. I entered at Eighty-first Street and veered left along the path through the woods. I might have passed an occasional jogger or a body sprawled on a bench, but the park was dark and empty.

Then I noticed two young guys one black, one white or Puerto Rican walking about twenty yards behind me. I didn't want to look back over my shoulder again, but I sensed they were following me. I started walking faster, but their footsteps were getting louder and I could hear their breathing, so I knew they had gained on me. I started to run as fast as I could, my heart pounding and my adrenaline flowing. I thought about veering off into the woods, but I stayed on the path, and around the next bend I reached a playground and saw streetlights ahead of me. I exited the park at Eighty-fifth Street and Central Park West and walked downtown a block, looking back over my shoulder, relieved to see that the kids weren't following.

I reduced my pace to fast walking, gasping, still looking back after every few strides. I crossed Central Park West at the next light and walked quickly along Eighty-fourth Street. I was angry at myself for getting into a potentially dangerous situation. Normally I had better instincts, avoiding all places in Manhattan that were quiet and unpopulated, especially at night. At Columbus Avenue, my pulse and breathing returned to normal and I started seeing the humor in the situation. If the kids had tried to steal my wallet, I would've had nothing to give them.

Back at my apartment, I cleaned up the mess in the bedroom, then showered. Afterward I felt refreshed and clearheaded, and I decided that tonight I'd finally break up with Rebecca. All I had to say was, It's over, and I could go on with my life.

It sounded so simple.

It was after ten o'clock. I returned to my computer, hoping to at least finish a rough draft of my article. I connected my headset to a little digital tape recorder and started transcribing the interview I'd had earlier with Robert Lipton. As I listened to Lipton go on in his upbeat voice about his company's prospects, I kept rehearsing in my head what I'd say to Rebecca. I had trouble concentrating. I mistyped words and sentences and I had to replay parts of the recording, sometimes three or four times. As I was working, I realized that I'd forgotten to contact the credit bureaus about my wallet. I went online and did a search for "what to do if your wallet is stolen" and found all the information I needed. After I called the credit bureaus and put fraud alerts on my accounts, I remembered that I hadn't canceled one card from my wallet an Emigrant Savings Bank ATM card that I rarely used.

After nearly an hour on the phone, getting put on hold and talking to two customer service reps, I was finally able to close the account. I tried to get back to work, but I was starting to feel the way I had right after I discovered my wallet had been lifted. I felt like a sucker, like I'd been violated. I couldn't believe I'd let it happen.

I hadn't been drunk, so I couldn't use that as an excuse. I remembered how Eddie had distracted me, showing me the pictures of the naked women, and how I had leaned forward slightly on my stool to see the first one. At that moment, anyone behind me could have had access to my front pocket and easily swiped my wallet.

I finished outlining the article at about one o'clock. I was exhausted, but I wanted to stay up to have it out with Rebecca. I was afraid that if I waited until the morning, I'd lose my edge and wouldn't be able to go through with it.

I turned on the TV in the living room for some background noise and lay on the couch. I dozed for a while, then woke up and checked my watch.

It was past three. I realized that tonight could be one of the nights that Rebecca didn't come home. Sometimes when she went out she didn't return until the next afternoon, claiming that it had gotten late and she was wasted so she'd «crashed» at some friend's place. Of course, I often wondered if she was cheating on me. I hoped she was in bed right now with Ray, or some other guy, and that they were having great sex, or better yet, falling in love.

I got up from the couch and was about to head toward the bedroom when I heard the lock in the door turning. A few seconds later, Rebecca entered. She was obviously wasted standing unsteadily, her eyes glassy and bloodshot and when she saw me in the living room facing her she reacted as if she had entered the wrong apartment. Then her confused expression morphed into a drunken smile and she said, "Hey, what up, yo?… I mean, what up besides you?"

She tossed the Gucci pocketbook that she'd bought last week on my Visa onto a chair, then wobbled over and kissed me on the lips, giving me a whiff of alcohol.

"I had the best est time tonight," she slurred. "That new club blew, but Chaos was hype, yo. I met this choreographer guy? I forget his name Mike or Mick or Mel something-or-other. I have his card in my pocketbook." She reached toward her side, slow to realize that she had already put her pocketbook down. She went on: "Anyway, I had such a bitchin' time talking to him. He has this, like, company, you know, a dance company, and he wants me in this, like, show? It's some kind of modern jazz-like show or something or other. Who knows? Next year at this time I might be dancing at Lincoln Center. Don't worry; I'll still talk to you when I'm famous."

She started laughing, as if she'd made an hilarious joke, and then she undressed. First her top came off, and then she wiggled out of her jeans and kicked away her sandals.

"It's over," I said.

Rebecca stared at me, half smiling. My words didn't have the cathartic effect that I'd thought they would.

"What's over?" she finally asked.

"Us," I said. "I want you to move out."

She continued to stare at me ambiguously, then started to laugh.

"Very funny," she said. "I almost thought you were serious for a second."

"I am serious," I said. "We both know we're totally wrong for each other and that this isn't going anywhere. We probably should've broken up months ago, but we should just be mature adults now and»

"Come on, let's go to bed," she said, coming up to me and taking my hand. "I've been thinking about your hot, studly body all night."

"I'm serious," I said, letting go of her. "I think you'd be a lot happier with somebody else, somebody your own age, somebody you have more in common with."

She came up to me again and put her arms around my waist, pressing her tiny, firm breasts up against my chest, and then she began to run her studded tongue gently along the outline of my lips in a slow, circular motion. I hated that I was getting turned on.

When she started to kiss me I was finally able to pull away and say,

"Stop it," although not with much conviction.

"Ooh, you're ready for me, I see," she said, reaching into my gym shorts and starting to kiss me again.

"Stop it," I said again. This time I took a few steps backward, creating several feet between us.

"God, what's wrong with you?" she said. "Wait, I know, it's your wallet, right? You're still bumming about that."

"It's not my wallet," I said. "Look, I know this isn't the best time to talk about this. I mean, you're obviously wasted»

"I am not wasted," she said defensively. "I didn't even smoke tonight.

I just had some E, a few drinks, and one teensy-weensy little line of coke." She held up her thumb and forefinger about an inch apart, as if measuring.

"Whatever," I said. "I just wanted to let you know I made a decision."

She stared at me for a long time with her mouth sagging open in exaggerated disbelief, then said, "Decision? What decision? You're making decisions about my life, telling me I'm fucking wasted? I am not fucking wasted, and you are not fucking breaking up with me."

"Seriously," I said. "I want you to pack your things and move out as soon as possible. Let's not make this any more difficult than it is."

I started toward the hallway leading to the bedroom, proud of myself for expressing my feelings so well, when a large object soared by my head. I ducked, then heard the crash. I looked up and saw that the vase of fake orchids from Pottery Barn had smashed onto the floor, shattering glass all over the hallway.

I turned back toward Rebecca and said, "Are you out of your fucking " then I had to duck again as another vase this one ceramic came at my head. It missed, crashing against the wall behind me, and then I charged her. She was reaching toward the mantel above the fireplace for more breakable objects. As she grabbed a small ceramic pitcher in one hand and a glass candlestick in the other, I held her arms from behind, trying to restrain her.

"Get off!" she screamed. She swung her arms and kicked violently, as if I were trying to strap her into an electric chair.

"Calm down," I said, "just calm the fuck down," but I knew I was just wasting my breath. I I managed to push her back against the brick wall adjacent to the fireplace. Her face was bright pink and she! was trying to bite my arm.

"Come on," I said, then groaned as she kneed me in the balls. I keeled over for a moment and she was able to break free. With her right hand she swept everything off the fireplace mantel onto the floor. More glass shattered. I She headed toward the kitchen and I went after her.

I was about to grab her when she turned and slapped me in the face. It was a real slap it stung and before I could do or say anything she slapped me again, harder than the first time. When she came at me with both hands, fingers extended like claws, ready to scratch my eyes out, I finally snapped into action. I managed to get hold of her wrists and I forced her back into the living room, pinning her down on the couch.

"I've had it with this shit," I said. "Tomorrow you're out of here, got that? You're out of here!"

She spat at me, and started screaming again, when someone knocked on the front door. I put my hand over her mouth, but she was still able to scream.

"Is everything okay in there?"

It was Carmen, the old Italian woman who lived across the hall from us.

"Fine, thank you," I said.

"It's not fucking fi…" Rebecca said, and I pressed my hand down harder, muffling her words.

"Are you sure everything's okay?" Carmen said.

"It's all right," I said. "Thank you!"

I held my hand over Rebecca's mouth for about a minute, until I was sure Carmen was gone, and then I said, "What the hell's wrong with you?

Are you out of your mind? Huh? Are you out of your mind?"

Rebecca had started to calm down, breathing normally, and I moved my hand away. I realized I'd been pressing down with more force than I'd thought, because her lower lip was bleeding. It must have gotten cut on her bottom teeth.

I moved to the other end of the couch and sat with my head in my hands.

Then I heard sobbing noises and I looked over and saw that Rebecca had started crying. I sat there, letting her cry, figuring it was better than letting her go on a rampage, breaking things.

Finally she said, "I'm not a bad person, right? I'm not a bad person, am I?"

Her mascara was running and blood was collecting on her lower lip.

"I know I'm not a bad person," she said. "I'm a good person. I have problems, but everybody has problems, right? I'm not a bad person.

Please don't tell me I'm bad.

Please don't tell me I'm bad."

"I never said you were bad," I said, hating myself.

"I won't be bad anymore," she said. "I promise. Just don't leave me.

I couldn't handle it if you left me."

She started kissing my neck and my chest, then my stomach, then lower.

I tried to push her off me, and when I tried again it was too late.

"Sit back and watch me," she said.

WHEN THE ALARM clock blared I couldn't get out of bed. I had to hit the snooze button four or five times before I managed to make it into the shower. I got dressed lethargically, wishing I were still asleep.

I said good-bye to Rebecca, but she couldn't hear me. She was snoring, drooling onto her pillow.

Heading toward the subway station along Seventy-ninth Street, lost in thought, I stepped onto a huge pile of dogshit. Cursing, I looked around for a puddle to dunk my shoe into, but it hadn't rained in days, so I had to scrape the sole against the edge of the curb to get off as much of the shit as I could. People rushing by smiled at me smugly or gave me look-at-that-stupid-idiot-who-stepped-in-shit looks, and I glared back at them, wishing they'd mind their own fucking business.

Continuing along the block, still cursing under my breath, I decided that my real problem was New York. I was sick of the crowds, the pollution, the noise, the smells, the traffic jams, and the dog shit.

And I was sick of rushing everywhere and feeling stressed-out and angry twenty-four fucking hours a day. I didn't know why I even lived in New York anymore. I never went to the theater, or clubs, or museums, and I hardly ever went out to restaurants or bars. Actually, aside from going to work, I rarely went below Seventy-second Street or above Eighty-sixth, or ventured farther east than the sliver of Central Park between the northern end of the Sheep Meadow and the southern end of the Great Lawn. Despite living in one of the biggest, supposedly greatest, most culturally diverse cities in the world, I spent about eighty percent of my time in roughly a half-mile radius of my apartment.

If I left New York, I could start my life over again. With my Wall Street Journal experience alone I could move to a smaller city and get a job at a newspaper. I could be the big-shot reporter from New York; everybody would look up to me and respect me. Maybe I could meet a woman, someone I really liked, and I could have a normal, happy life.

We'd have a big house and kids a boy and a girl and we'd have a backyard and a swimming pool. I tried to imagine myself and my happy family living in California or Florida someplace sunny as I descended the steep, dirty steps to the subway.

I rode the jam-packed train to Fiftieth Street, then walked uptown on Broadway. Manhattan Business's publisher was a cheap shit, and, although the magazine had been at the same location on Fifty-second Street for years, the office had been designed and decorated as though it were a temporary location. Except for the executive offices at the far end of the cavernous space, there were no walls. The office was divided by rows of closely aligned room dividers to give us a sense of "privacy." The floors weren't carpeted, and the old floorboards were corroding in spots. The walls had chunks missing, and the place desperately needed a paint job. The windows were filthy, the ceilings were cracked, and the air-conditioning and heat never seemed to work.

I was heading down the corridor toward my office, really a large cubicle, when I heard Peter Lyons, the associate editor, call out my name. I turned around and saw him approaching behind me. Peter was very tall, maybe six-five, and had a small, balding head.

"Just the man I was looking for," he said.

Although Peter was American, from Westport, Connecticut, he spoke with a British accent, which, rumor had it, he'd picked up after spending his junior year abroad in London. He also wrote in a pseudo-British style, which was especially annoying when he «edited» my stories, adding unnecessary adverbs and words he'd obviously pulled from a thesaurus. He was five years younger than me with three years less experience, and he didn't have a financial background or a journalism background. He'd majored in creative writing at Wesleyan, for Christ's sake, and it was humiliating to have to listen to his editorial critiques of my work when he had no idea what he was talking about.

"Morning," I said, forcing a smile.

"I was expecting to see your article yesterday," he said. "Remind me again of its subject matter?"

"It's a company report on Byron Technologies."

"Ah, yes, Byron Technologies," he said. "And what's their story?"

"Silicon Alley tech company, provide communication and remote-access solutions as well as support for various applications along multiple product lines. Lost two-forty a share last quarter, preadjusted EBIDTA. Pro forma earnings were a loss of seventy-six cents a share, missing the Street's whisper of a loss of sixty-eight cents a share, but the gross revenue number of six point two million was point four million more than what most analysts had expected. The company's burning cash and will have to raise money in the fourth quarter maybe sell some equity, possibly through a secondary offering, although in the current climate the prospect of this seems unlikely. On a positive note, the company has cut spending over the last few quarters, mainly by reducing payroll on their sales and marketing staffs and focusing more on the support side of the business, where their margins are much higher. The company's long-term viability depends upon their ability to reduce spending while maintaining their growth rate, as well as lowering their cash-burn rate, but the company is an unlikely takeover candidate because of all the debt on their balance sheet and because a great deal of consolidation has already taken place in their industry."

I'd said all this talking as fast as I could, barely pausing for breath, and Peter looked lost, his eyes glazing over.

"Sounds compelling," he said. "I certainly look forward to reading it.

Send it to me asap."

"Love to," I said, "but I didn't write it yet."

"Really?" he said, locking his jaw and exposing his lower teeth. "And why exactly is that?"

"My deadline's not till this afternoon."

"Those deadlines are for me, not for you. Didn't you see the memo I sent you about that last week?"

I always deleted Peter's memos without reading them.

"Must've missed that one."

"Well, it spelled out the deadline situation in great detail. In the future you need to deliver your stories to me twenty-four hours in advance of your ultimate deadline so I have adequate time to edit them."

"Gotcha," I said, fake-smiling.

"Very well then," he said. "Carry on."

In my office, cursing out Peter under my breath, I got to work, transcribing Robert Lipton's interview and outlining my article. There was no way Jeff Sherman could call this one a puff piece. Adding to what I'd come up with last night, I'd write a paragraph questioning Byron Technologies' business model, calling it «unrealistic» and "a throwback to the Internet mania of the late nineties," and I'd call the company's decision to market its products in Canada and Mexico "a fatal error."

I started writing the actual article, banging it out at my usual forty-five-word-a-minute speed, when Angie Lerner entered my office.

Angie was a reporter who worked in the office next door to me. She was very cute, with straight brown hair and a great smile. Although she was slightly overweight, especially below the waist, she was confident about her appearance and not afraid to wear sleeveless shirts and tight pants, which made her even sexier. Although she was only twenty-six, she had a mature, level-headed way about her that made her seem closer to thirty.

Usually I tried to find things wrong with women, noticing and amplifying every fault, but there was nothing wrong with Angie Lerner.

She was perfect wife material stable, down to earth, intelligent. It was easy to insert her into my fantasy of the house in the suburbs, a two-car garage, weekends on the golf course, two cute kids. But for some reason I always avoided the women who were perfect for me, going after the ones with fucked up flashing on their foreheads instead.

"Working?" she asked.

"What?" I said, lost for a moment, staring at her. Then I said,

"Yeah."

"What on?" she said, glancing at my monitor.

"Don't ask," I said.

Angie shook her head knowingly; we complained to each other about Jeff and Peter all the time.

"You know what Jeff told me the other day?" Angie said. "I'm in his office and he goes, "Your articles aren't nasty enough." He said I need to grow a backbone, stop being so wishy-washy."

"Why do we even work here?"

"For our great salaries."

"We could deliver pizzas or flowers, answer phones somewhere. At least we'd have our integrity."

"Do what I do just hand in the stories, and don't think about it. The most important thing is to get your bylines."

"Yeah, if Peter doesn't fuck them up first. Headhunters always ask me why my Journal articles were so much better written than my Manhattan Business ones. I try to explain it, but I get the sense they never believe me. It's like a convicted criminal swearing he's innocent."

Angie plopped down in the seat next to my desk. I asked her what else was going on and she started whispering to me about the latest office gossip Simone, who worked in Accounting, and Brad, who worked in Marketing, had gotten drunk two nights ago and had sex, which was especially juicy because Brad had recently gotten engaged. I was listening to every word Angie said, but got distracted, thinking about Rebecca, frustrated that I hadn't gotten rid of her yet. Angie must have noticed my agitation, because she said in a suddenly concerned voice, "Is something wrong?"

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"I don't know. You just seem out of it."

"It's my story. I just want to get it out of the way."

I knew this explanation didn't hack it. We always had deadlines, and it had never stopped me from killing time with Angie until the eleventh hour.

"I'll go bug somebody else," she said, getting up.

"I'm not trying to blow you off," I said.

"Sure, you're not." Then, smiling, making it into a joke, she said,

"See you later."

I watched her leave, feeling bad for acting so cold. She knew I was living with Rebecca, but I had never talked to her about the relationship, and I wondered if I should. She was very rational and supportive, the type of person who always took your side in a fight, and maybe what I needed was for somebody like her to tell me that I had to dump Rebecca's ass and get on with my life.

I picked up my phone to call Angie and apologize when the light on my extension lit up, indicating that I had an incoming call. I was going to let my voice mail answer, but then I decided to pick up, figuring it might be a last-minute contact calling me back about my article.

"David Miller."

"Hello?"

The woman's voice was meek and high-pitched; I had to strain to hear her.

"Yes?" I said.

"Are you David Miller?"

"Speaking."

There was silence for a couple of seconds, and then the woman said, "I have your wallet."

I straightened up in my chair and smiled. "Wow, that's great wow.

Where'd you find it?"

The line was silent again. I wondered if she'd hung up or the connection was lost.

"Hello?" I said.

"Yeah," she said.

"I said where'd you find my»

"The bus," she said. "The First Avenue bus."

"Really?" I said. "Jesus, I wonder how it wound up there. I was pick pocketed in this bar in midtown last night. How'd you get my work number?"

"It was on a business card."

"Wow," I said. "Thank you so much for calling this'll really save me a big headache. I thought I'd have to get a new Social Security card and go to the DMV, stand in one of those ridiculous lines»

"So do you want it back or not?"

Suddenly the woman sounded rushed.

"Of course," I said. "How can I get it from you?"

"I live downtown," she said, "on Avenue B and Sixth."

"Okay," I said, finding a pen and piece of paper to write on. "You want me to meet you someplace near your apartment, or»

"You can come to my place to get it," she said.

"Fine," I said. "No problem. What time?"

"How's right now?"

I glanced at the time on my PC 11:18. I could zip downtown and make it back up in plenty of time to finish my story before the two o'clock deadline.

"Sounds great," I said. "What's your address?"

She gave me the address and told me her name Sue.

"Okay," I said. "I'll be there in twenty minutes, a half hour. Thanks so much for calling."

I typed a quick couple of paragraphs, then grabbed my jacket and headed down the corridor toward the front of the office. On the way out, I leaned into Angie's cubicle. She was on the phone, so I whispered,

"Sorry." Without speaking she mouthed, It's okay, and smiled.

I took the subway downtown instead of taking a cab, figuring it would be faster at this time of day. After exiting the Eighth Street station on Broadway, I headed east along St. Marks. I hadn't been to the East Village in a long time, and I'd been to Alphabet City only once or twice, when I first moved to the city after college. I'd heard about all of the gentrification that had taken place east of First Avenue, but the changes weren't as dramatic as I expected. Internet cafes, trendy macrobiotic restaurants, and hip clothing stores had replaced many of the bode gas dive bars, and hole-in-the-wall record stores, but the streets were still crowded with plenty of self-important, pseudo-Bohemian wannabes and burnouts, and there were still lots of seedy-looking bars and stores selling what looked like garbage they had to be fronts for something.

Avenue A had definitely improved over the past decade, looking as yuppified as Amsterdam Avenue in my neighborhood, and Tompkins Square Park wasn't the drug-infested hellhole it used to be. There were actually kids in the playground and normal-looking people walking along the paths and sitting on benches. But the area hadn't been entirely cleaned up. Outside the park there were still plenty of drug-addict types huddled on street corners and milling around phone booths.

I headed down Sixth Street and found Sue's building, near Avenue B. It was a nice block, but the five-story tenement where Sue lived had definitely missed out on the neighborhood's renaissance. The facade was dilapidated, with crumbling concrete, and at least a couple of apartments were burned out, the windows boarded up with plywood. Along the front of the building there was a waist-high fence, with several overflowing garbage cans beyond it. The door to the building had a small window, about one foot by one foot, too high to see inside, as if it were designed to give push-in rapists privacy.

Two very thin, junkie-looking guys with dirty faces and filthy clothes were hanging out on the sidewalk in front of the fence They'd been having a hushed conversation, but they stopped talking and stared at me as I approached.

I had a bad feeling about going inside the building, and I considered forgetting about the wallet and returning to my office. I actually turned around and took a few steps back toward Avenue A, when I thought about the picture of Barbara tucked behind my driver's license. It was just an old Polaroid, trimmed down to wallet size, but I'd kept it in my wallet for years and it meant a lot to me.

I walked by the two junkies, who were still watching me, and entered the building. Garbage littered the floor of the vestibule some of it was sticking to my feet and there was a strong, nauseating smell of urine that reminded me of the way Manhattan streets smell in August. I held my breath as I pressed the buzzer to apartment fourteen. A few seconds later a stat icky barely audible voice said something I couldn't understand.

"Sue?" I said, but the loud static came back on as I spoke.

"It's me," I said. "David Miller… the wallet guy."

More static came on. The odor in the vestibule was so bad I had to hold my shirt up over my face to breathe. I was about to go outside when the buzzer sounded, opening the inside door. I thought it was weird that she'd buzz a total stranger up to her apartment, but she probably figured that a guy who worked at a financial magazine wouldn't chop her into pieces.

The interior of the building was as run-down as the exterior. There was an old, rickety looking staircase to the left and overflowing garbage some bagged, some not piled up next to it. As I headed up the four steep flights of stairs, my shirt still covering half my face, I heard a TV blasting The Price Is Right, and a guy screaming with an Indian accent I made out the words "piece of shit" and I saw several huge, fearless roaches on the walls. It got warmer on each floor until it became downright hot. Again, I considered turning back, but then I thought about the picture. I'd had it for about twenty years, and it would suck if I couldn't get it back, especially after coming this far to get it.

I heard a door open on the floor above me and I continued up the stairs.

SUE WAS WAITING for me on the fifth floor, peering out of the partially opened door of apartment fourteen. When I arrived on the landing, I could see only a sliver of her face and body. As I approached the apartment, the door opened wider and Sue poked her head into the hallway. She was even shorter than I'd expected about five feet tall and very thin. She had brown hair, cut in a boyish style around her ears, and pale skin.

"Come in," she said in her mousy voice, which sounded even higher and squeakier than it had on the phone. "Thanks," I said hesitantly.

I entered the small, cluttered apartment, or really a rectangular-shaped room. The place was maybe two hundred square feet, maybe, and had a rusty sink, a tiny stove, and an old refrigerator, probably from the sixties, at one end, and a wide-open window at the other. A small, beat-up drop leaf table and two large, antique-looking chairs, partially covered in peeling white paint, were near the brick wall. Near the other wall, a futon lay on the floor with a small, old Turkish rug in front of it. Amish-mash of paintings, photographs, and posters hung around the apartment, including old framed posters of Van Gogh's self portrait and that famous picture of the Flatiron Building, and what looked like an original oil painting of an overweight nude woman. While the apartment had obviously been decorated with things purchased at thrift shops, or maybe even found on the street, everything had been arranged with a well-thought-out, maybe shabby-chic sense of style.

I stood in the center of the room as Sue knelt down for a moment near the futon. The apartment was as hot as the stairwell, and I was sweating through my shirt. Sue stood up, probably noticing how uncomfortable I looked, because she said, "The fan broke."

I glanced at the old, dusty fan in the corner, wondering when was the last time any air had circulated in this room.

"Yeah, it is kind of hot in here, huh?" I said.

"It's the tar roof," she said. "Anytime the sun's out it gets boiling in here."

I took my first good look at Sue, double-taking at how thin her arms were. She was wearing old, ripped khaki shorts and a tank top and she was much thinner than I'd thought. Her face was gaunt, with her cheeks sunken in, and her body reminded me of the photos of Auschwitz victims.

Her skin was more than pale it had a worn-out, ghostly appearance and her eyes were as lost and vacant as Barbara's had been during her final days in the hospital.

I stood there for several seconds, broiling in the heat, wanting to leave and get the hell back to my air-conditioned office.

"So," I said, "my wallet…"

"I have it," she said, not moving. I noticed how her mouth moved in a strange way when she talked, as if her jaw were misaligned.

"Great," I said. I waited a few seconds, then said, "So… can I have it back?"

"Sure," she said, "but you're gonna give me a reward, right?"

I don't know why I didn't expect her to ask for money or why this question offended me so much. Of course, I didn't mind giving her something as a token of thanks, but I guess I felt like she should have been up front about it on the phone.

"I don't have a lot of cash on me," I said, reaching into my pocket and taking out some crumpled bills. "My wallet was stolen last night and I didn't have a chance to go to the bank yet." I found a twenty and said, "How's this?"

"Not enough," she said, staring at my hand, suddenly seeming very agitated, wiping her nose repeatedly with the back of her hand.

I reached into my pocket. I had a ten and a few singles.

"Thirty-three's all I have," I said.

"I want three," she said.

"Excuse me?"

"Hundred," she added.

"What?"

"I want three hundred bucks."

"That's crazy," I said. "I already canceled most of my cards anyway. I just wanted the wallet back to save me some inconvenience»

"Three hundred's the price," she said.

"I'm not giving you three hundred dollars," I said.

"Then I'm not giving you your wallet," she said.

We stood there in the sweltering apartment, staring at each other. Sue had a serious, unyielding expression, but I still felt sorry for her.

She looked very nervous and agitated and I realized she was probably a junkie.

I would've left right then if it weren't for that picture of Barbara. I still knew I wasn't being entirely rational about it, but I felt like if I didn't get it back, I'd always regret it.

"Look, I'm trying to be reasonable," I said. "I appreciate that you called me and I want to give you a reward, but three hundred's crazy. I have an idea. How about you can keep the money that was in the wallet too there must be fifty, sixty bucks in it»

"The wallet was empty when I found it," she said. "Your cards and everything were in it, but there was no money."

Her dark, lifeless eyes were focused straight ahead at my chest; by the way she was avoiding eye contact, I was positive she was lying about something. Either she'd stolen the money herself or she was working with Eddie Lomack, the drunk who'd distracted me in the bar last night.

Suddenly I could picture her and Eddie meeting last night, after Eddie had walked away. They'd probably split the money from my wallet and then tried to figure out how they could soak me for more.

"I don't have any more cash on me," I said. "I don't know what you expect me to do."

"Go to an ATM," she said.

"With what?" I said. "I don't have a cash card."

"I'll give it back to you."

"I canceled it already."

"Go to any Chase branch," she said. "They'll give you a new temporary card, or you can take out money right away with picture ID."

She spoke with such assurance about banking policy that I wondered how many other wallets she'd held for ransom. I was also irritated by how she knew that I had an account at Chase. Obviously she'd gone through my wallet pretty carefully.

"Did you steal my wallet last night?" I asked.

"What do you mean?" she said, overly defensive. "I found it on the train."

"You told me it was the bus."

"That's what I meant the bus, the First Avenue bus."

"Look," I said, "I know you're trying to make some money off me, but it's not gonna happen. I have my driver's license in that wallet and some personal things that I'd like to have back, but I'm not paying you three hundred dollars. If you won't give it back to me I guess I'll just have to live without it."

I turned to leave when she said, "Two hundred."

Without turning back toward her I said, "No."

"One-fifty," she said.

I opened the door.

"A hundred bucks," she said, "but that's as low as I'm going. I don't care I'll throw the fuckin' wallet away."

"Deal," I said.

She held out her hand to shake; I saw the track marks on her arm some looked fresh and I kept my hand right where it was, by my side.

"You got picture ID on you, right?" she said.

Because I'd been planning to go to my bank during lunch today, I had my passport with me.

"Yeah," I said.

"Good," she said.

I headed back down the stairs, holding my breath most of the way and breathing under the collar of my shirt when I had to. When I left the building I took a series of deep breaths, as if I'd been working in a coal mine all day.

I remembered seeing a Chase branch on Broadway and Eighth Street when I'd gotten off the subway. I walked there as fast as I could. It was almost twelve-thirty, and the deadline for my article was two o'clock.

I could have handed the article in late and it probably wouldn't have been a big deal, but I didn't want to have to get into it with Peter.

At the bank, two of the three bank officers were taking breaks, and there were two people ahead of me, waiting to see the other officer.

After waiting for more than half an hour, one of the other officers returned from his break and helped me. His name was Stanley Carmichael. He was a squat, balding guy with very thick glasses, and he had to be the slowest bank officer in New York. It would have taken an average person a few minutes to reactivate my account and issue me a temporary banking card, but it took Stanley Carmichael nearly half an hour. It was excruciating to watch this guy squinting at the computer monitor, typing with one finger, and calling other bank workers over to help him input information. Finally, I had my new ATM card and I withdrew three hundred dollars one for Sue and two for myself.

It was almost one o'clock when I left the bank and started jogging back to the apartment building on Sixth Street. I rang Sue's apartment, hoping she would come down to meet me this time, but naturally she buzzed me up and I had to climb the four flights of stairs. When I reached the top floor, the door to apartment fourteen was ajar, but Sue wasn't standing there waiting. I knocked two times, then went inside and said, "Hello?"

Sue was walking toward me, coming from the direction of the futon.

There was a funny burning odor in the apartment.

"Did you get the money?" she asked, seeming much more relaxed than she had before.

I reached into my pocket and handed her the one hundred dollars in twenties. As she counted the bills, I glanced beyond her and saw a syringe on the futon. Adjacent to the futon, on the floor, there was a small frying pan.

"So can I have my wallet?" I asked.

"I want another hundred," she said.

"What?" I said.

"You heard me."

"We made a deal."

"I changed my mind."

"I don't have any more money on me," I said, feeling my face getting warmer.

"Yeah, right," she said. "You had your wallet stolen last night and you just went to the bank. You must've taken out another hundred at least."

"Look, I've had it," I said. "I just ran to Broadway and back to get you your hundred bucks and now you're gonna give me my fucking wallet."

"Fifty," she said.

"Maybe I should just call the cops right now," I said.

"I didn't have to call you, you know," she said. "I could've thrown the wallet away when I found it."

"You mean stole it."

"I didn't steal it."

I was tired of arguing and haggling. Another fifty bucks to get my wallet back and go on with my life seemed worth it.

"All right," I said, "give me my wallet and I'll give you the money."

She lifted the futon and picked up my wallet. She handed it to me and I was giving her the fifty bucks when the door opened behind me.

"What the fuck's this shit?"

I turned around toward the door and saw a short, unshaven Latino guy in a black leather vest and nothing underneath. His eyes were glazed over and bloodshot, and he was sweating more than I was.

"It's nothing," Sue said, suddenly very nervous. "He just works for the landlord."

"Landlord, huh?" the guy said. "So now you fuckin' his friends too?"

Then he said to me, "You fuckin' my lady?"

"It's not like that," Sue said. "He's just somebody I»

The guy pushed her aside, almost knocking her down, and said to me,

"You fuckin' my lady? Huh? You fuckin' her?"

"No," I said, backing away. "Of course not."

"Bullshit you ain't," he said. "Why you got money out?"

"It's not like you think," Sue said. "He's just»

The guy pushed Sue away and she fell onto the floor. Then he came closer to me and opened a switchblade.

"You fuckin' my lady, bitch?"

"Relax," I said. "Just calm down, all right?"

Holding the blade in front of him, he closed in on me, looking as crazed as a death-row psychopath. He was between me and the door so I had nowhere to run.

"Take it easy," I said. "Just»

"You fuck my lady," he said, "maybe you wanna fuck this." Then he lunged at me with the blade. He would have stabbed me in the chest if I hadn't moved to my left at the last moment. He still got my right arm below the shoulder, but before I could feel any pain he was coming again, this time toward my face. I grabbed his right forearm with both of my hands and we struggled. The blade, a few inches in front of my eyes, looked like a sword. Sue was screaming for him to leave me alone, but he was relentless. I squeezed his forearm harder, knowing that if I let go that would be it. He swung his left fist and punched me in my face, getting my lower lip, but I didn't let go of his forearm.

"I didn't fuck her," I managed to say, but I knew it would be impossible to get through to him; he was out of his mind, probably whacked-out on drugs, and he wouldn't calm down until I was dead.

Sue grabbed him from behind, trying to pull him off me.

"Stop it!" she screamed. "Stop it!"

"Fuckin' cunt," the guy said. "I'm gonna cut your fuckin' tits off."

He straight-armed her in the chest and she fell back against the wall.

I was trying to wrestle the switchblade away, without making much progress. Sue came up behind the guy and jumped on his back, but she was so weak and slight that he continued to struggle with me, unaffected. I hoped someone in the building would hear all the commotion and call the police.

Sue put her hands over the guy's face, scratching at his eyes.

"Fuckin' cunt… fuckin' ho," the guy said. "I'm gonna fuckin' kill you too, bitch!"

The guy backed up, ramming Sue hard against the front door until she finally let go of his face. He brought back his hand and turned, about to stab her, when I grabbed him from behind. I watched for the blade, knowing that at any moment he could wheel around and jab it into me.

The guy turned, breaking free, and I saw the blade coming toward the side of my face. I backed away, turning my head, and the cold metal and the guy's rough fist brushed past my right cheek. He screamed something in Spanish the only word I could make out was puta and came at me again. This time I was ready. I grabbed his arm with the switchblade before he could bring it forward, and I held it steady.

With my other hand I tried to work the blade free, but he wouldn't let go. I was using all of my strength, determined not to let this crazy asshole kill me. I have no idea how long we struggled it could've been a few seconds or a few minutes. I was staring into the guy's wild eyes, knowing I probably looked just as wild, as Sue screamed, trying to pull us apart. Then, somehow, I managed to work the blade free and it clanged onto the floor. Sue picked it up and the guy and I continued to struggle. I twisted his arm back and he pulled my hair.

Then he elbowed me in the gut, and that's when I really lost it. I grabbed him around the neck, getting him in a headlock. Then I kicked a chair out of the way and rammed his head as hard as I could against the steel door. I guess I could've stopped right then, because he wasn't fighting back anymore, but I didn't want to. I started kicking him, again and again. I don't know how many times I kicked him, but it was more than five and less than twenty, and then, after giving him one final kick in the ribs, I backed away.

I stood there in front of him for a long time, panting like an animal.

He was still curled up on his side, not moving at all.

Sue kneeled down over him, crying, shaking him, saying, "Ricky, oh, my God, Ricky. Wake up, baby. Come on, wake up… Come on, just open your eyes just open them… Don't die don't die on me, baby. Don't die!"

She said other things too, but all of the noise faded to nothing.

Finally Sue stopped crying and turned to me and said, "You killed him."

The apartment seemed twenty degrees warmer and it was spinning.

"What the hell're you talking about?" I said. "We'll call an ambulance. He just got knocked out, that's all."

"Look at him, you fuckin' idiot," she said. "He stopped breathing, he doesn't have a pulse. He's dead."

As I looked down at his perfectly still body, panic set in. I was shaking so badly I could barely speak.

"I didn't mean it," I said. "You know that, right? I was just trying to stop him, to keep him from… I mean, he would've killed you, or both of us, or he would've… It was an accident, damn it!"

"It doesn't matter," she said. "You still killed him."

I was so dizzy I could barely stand as Sue remained on her knees, sobbing next to the body.

"Come on, you saw what happened," I said. "It was self-defense, he was out of his mind, he…" I stopped and stared at the body for several seconds, still in disbelief, then said, "Come on, he's not really dead.

How can he be dead?"

"You must've crushed his skull or something," Sue said. She was still crying.

"That's impossible," I said. "We'll get an ambulance, they'll work on him»

"Just shut up!" she screamed. "Just shut the fuck up!"

I stared at the body.

"Why the hell did he come after me like that anyway?" I said. "What the hell was wrong with him?"

Still sobbing, Sue caught her breath and managed to say, "He was just jealous."

"Jealous?" I said. "Jealous of what? What the hell are you talking about?"

"He wanted me to stop bringing guys back up here," she said. "He said he wanted to get married. "It's just gonna be me and you, baby. Just me and you." That's what he always said."

For several seconds I stood there, staring. Then I got a hold of myself and slapped the side of my leg, fumbling around, finally finding my front pants pocket. I took out my cell phone when Sue said,

"What're you doing?"

"Calling the police," I said.

I'd in putted 911 and pressed enter when Sue said,

"Don't do that."

"Why not?"

"Just don't."

I ended the call.

"It's okay," she said. "You can go. I'll call the cops."

"What the hell're you talking about?"

"Just gimme a thousand bucks and I'll take the rap," she said.

I stared at her, then said, "Are you out of your mind?"

"It'll save you a lot of trouble," she said, "and you won't go to jail."

"Why would I go to jail?" I said. "It was an accident you saw the whole thing, the way he came in here like a maniac. I'll just tell the cops the truth."

"It wasn't an accident," she said. "You went crazy and killed him."

"Bullshit," I said. "It was self-defense. He tried to stab me in the face. If I let him go he would've gone for the switchblade again."

"You know how hard you rammed his head into that door?" she said.

"Then all those times you kicked him, probably busting his ribs? That doesn't sound like self-defense to me."

"But you'll be here," I said. "You can tell them what really happened, how he was still coming after me, how…" I stopped myself, knowing it was pointless. I couldn't count on her to back up my story, especially when I wasn't even sure about the story myself.

"Trust me, it'll be a lot easier if I say I did it," she said.

"Ricky used to beat on me all the time he even busted my jaw once. I've called the cops on him tons of times they know all about us. I'll say I snapped I couldn't take it anymore. He came after me and I just grabbed him and went crazy on him."

I stared at the body on its side, facing away from me. I knew the logical thing to do was call the police, but I wasn't thinking logically. I was sweating and shaking and I couldn't concentrate. Like a hit-and-run driver, I just wanted to get away.

Don't be an idiot, I thought. Call the cops.

I input the 9 in 911 when Sue said, "Stop," in a way that told me that she meant it. I stopped dialing.

"Call the cops, I'll lie my ass off," she said. "I'll tell them I picked you up in the park and brought you back here. We were gonna fuck, but you didn't have enough money, so you had to go to the bank.

See, it all fits. Then, when you came back here, Ricky walked in on us. You two started fighting, then you flipped out and killed him."

"They won't believe you," I said.

"Bullshit they won't," she said. "Besides, it's against the law to go to hookers. You want that getting out?"

I looked at the cell phone, then at the door, then back toward Sue.

"I'm calling the cops," I said, "and I don't care what you tell them."

"If you call the cops you're going to jail," she said, "but do whatever you want."

I dialed the first 1.

"I'll say you were fucking me," she said. "I'll swear my ass up and down till they believe it. Go ahead make the call. I dare you."

I waited a few seconds, my thumb on the 1 button, thinking that the police could easily believe Sue's story over mine.

I pressed end and stood there for a while, trying to think it through some more, but my thoughts were jumbled.

"A thousand's nuts," I finally said.

"Thars the price."

"Five hundred."

"A thousand."

I shook my head, glancing at the body briefly and feeling nauseous.

"What if somebody heard something?" I said. "Your neighbors. What if somebody heard us fighting, or heard my voice»

"People in this building never hear anything," Sue said.

"But why should I trust you?" I said. "How do I know you'll really tell the cops you did it?"

"Because I want my money, that's why."

"But how do I know you'll keep your story straight?"

"I can't change my story," she said. "Once I tell the cops I did it, that's it."

I hesitated again. Everything was blurry and my hand holding the cell phone was sweating. Then a voice inside me screamed, Leavel and I said, "Fine," and headed toward the door.

"Meet me with the money tomorrow night at seven,"

Sue said. "Starbucks on Astor. You're not there, I'm turning you in.

I'm not fucking around."

I stepped by her and around the body and left the apartment.

The relief of being back outside, breathing in the cool, Manhattan air, was even greater than before. I walked up the block as fast as I could, at a pace equal to jogging. At the intersection of Avenue A and Seventh Street, there was a Don't Walk sign; rather than waiting for it to change, I walked alongside the traffic, then jaywalked diagonally across A, telling myself that I had to keep moving no matter what.

At Tenth Street, I cut over a couple of blocks to Second Avenue and headed uptown. People were giving me funny looks, and I realized that, in addition to my lower lip, which was still bleeding, my shirt was torn below the shoulder and some blood was seeping through. A few minutes later, as I continued up Second, I feared that I'd made a huge mistake. Ricky wasn't much taller than Sue, but he was stronger and had to weigh at least fifty pounds more than her; the police would never believe that she'd overpowered him.

In the crosswalk of Second and Fourteenth, I stopped, ready to turn back, but I decided it was too late. Sue had probably called the police already. They could be at her apartment right now, questioning her. She wouldn't be able to handle the pressure; she'd break down and tell them that I'd killed Ricky. I'd try to explain that I'd acted in self-defense, but after leaving the apartment that would be even harder to prove.

I leaned against a lamppost to steady myself, feeling helpless and stupid, when I had an epiphany.

Maybe it didn't happen.

I hadn't checked for Ricky's pulse or heartbeat. He'd looked dead, but it could have all been staged. I knew I'd banged his head pretty hard, but was it hard enough to kill him? They could all have been working together Sue, Ricky, and Eddie Lomack, the drunk from the bar. Maybe this was how they operated pick a guy's wallet, then see how far they could take it. If they could get the guy to think he killed somebody, they'd soak him for even more.

As I continued walking up Second Avenue, I became even more convinced that the whole thing was a scam. I felt like a real sucker and I decided I'd never tell anyone what had happened.

At the next corner, I stopped walking and took out my wallet. The picture of Barbara was still there, tucked in the window behind my driver's license. I slid it out and stared at it for a while, then replaced it behind the license and hailed a cab to midtown.

WHEN I ARRIVED at work, I went right to the bathroom and washed up at the sink. My face looked worse than I'd thought. My lower lip was swollen to about twice the size of the upper, and there was a small cut in it, making me resemble a boxer during a post-fight interview. The cut on my upper arm was superficial, though, barely piercing my skin. I cleaned up the best I could, then headed toward my office. Along the way I passed Amy Shumsky, who worked in Payroll, and Jenny Shaw, the personnel director. They asked me what happened, and I told them that I'd fallen but that it wasn't as bad as it looked. I purposely kept walking so they couldn't ask me any more questions, and then I turned along the corridor leading to the editorial department.

I sat at my desk and got right to work on my story. I always seemed to work best under deadline and I started writing as fast as my fingers could press the keys. After everything that had happened at Sue's apartment, I was very pissed off, and it came out in my writing. I blasted Byron Technologies' management, calling them "deceitful," and characterizing their accounting practices as "Enronesque." In reality, the company's management had been up front with investors, and a minor accounting error regarding the reporting of last quarter's proforma earnings had been quickly and publicly corrected. But I was on a roll, and the negative ideas kept flowing. I used a portion of a quote taken out of context from Kevin DuBois, an analyst who covered Byron's stock.

DuBois had told me that "I wouldn't be surprised if the company has to raise cash later in the year, perhaps with a secondary offering, but they have a great product and outstanding management and I'm still quite bullish on the future." In my story, I wrote a paragraph, stating that Byron Technologies had "an alarming cash-burn rate" that could lead to bankruptcy by year's end, and I'd ended the paragraph with DuBois stating, "The company has to raise cash."

In about fifteen minutes, I'd finished a rough draft of the article; then I went back through it, rearranging sentences, changing words, correcting typos, inserting quips. As I was working, I saw Angie enter my office in my peripheral vision. She waited for me to pause from typing, then said, "Where've you been?"

"The bank," I said.

"All day?"

"I had some other errands to run too."

"I thought you had to work on your story."

"I do."

I stayed facing the computer monitor, partly because I wanted to finish my story and partly because I didn't want Angie to see my fat lip.

"Hey, what's that?" she said.

She came up alongside me to my right and reached onto my desk for a copy of People with Tom Cruise on the cover. As she turned pages of the magazine, it was hard to keep facing away from her without raising suspicion. I noticed she was wearing the same perfume she always wore, the one that I'd never liked on other women, but that always smelled great on her.

"I didn't see this issue yet," she said. "Mind if I borrow it?"

"Sure."

"Thanks… God, what happened to you?"

She had turned to look at my face.

"I tripped," I said.

"Tripped?" she said. "Where?"

"Outside the bank."

"How?"

"Shoelace. It was pretty embarrassing. I fell right on my face on the sidewalk. I felt like a total idiot."

"You should sue."

The word sue made me cringe.

Angie must've noticed, because she said, "Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine," I said.

"Your shirt's ripped."

I looked down at the tear in my shirt, as if noticing it for the first time.

"Huh," I said, acting dumbfounded. "I guess it must've ripped when I fell."

Angie was squinting at my shirt, looking unconvinced. "It's nothing really," I said.

Now she was staring at my face again.

"You look like you were in a fight," she said.

"I know," I said. "It's crazy, isn't it?"

"You want me to get you some ice or something?"

"No, I'm fine, thanks. I just have to finish this story."

"No problem," she said. "Stop by later and say hi."

"I will," I said.

I returned to work on the article and finished it at a few minutes after two o'clock. After proofreading it quickly on the monitor, I sent the file to Peter Lyons. He'd fuck it up with Britishisms, then send it back to me; then I'd forward it to Jeff for some final idiotic input before it went to Copyediting.

Relieved to get my article out of the way, I ordered in a smoked turkey on rye for lunch, and then I spent most of the rest of the afternoon on the phone, setting up interviews for my next story. At around four-thirty, I went down the corridor to Angie's office. She was laughing, sitting across from Mike CHara, a recent college grad, who worked in the marketing department.

"How's it going?" I said.

They both gave me looks, as if I were intruding. Then Mike said,

"Dude, what happened to your face?"

"Fell," I said. "It's no big deal. I guess I'll come by later."

"That's okay, dude," Mike said. "I gotta take off anyway. I'll call you tonight, Ang, okay?"

"Okay," Angie said.

Mike put his hand on Angie's shoulder and she put hers over it for a second or two, and then he left the office.

"Ouch," I said.

"Shut up," Angie said, blushing.

"So what's the deal with you guys? Are you a couple now or what?"

"Why do you care?"

"No reason. You know me I just like to get the latest dish."

"We went out a couple of nights ago," she said.

"Really?" I said, surprised by how jealous I felt.

"I had a pretty good time," she said smugly. "We went to this little Italian place in the Village; then we went to a bar and had a few drinks. It was fun."

"Isn't he a little young for you?"

"He's twenty-two."

"Exactly. You're what, four years older than him?"

"Jesus, who're you, my father?"

I could tell she was enjoying making me jealous.

"Sorry," I said. "He seems like a nice guy. You two make a great couple."

"I don't know if I'd consider us a couple."

"Whatever you want to call it."

I hung out with Angie for a while, talking about office minutiae Mitchell in Accounting's ugly shirts, rumors about looming staff cuts, speculation about who kept leaving dirty dishes in the kitchen but there was tension between us and I felt awkward. Eventually I made an excuse and left.

Walking home rather than taking the subway, I decided that tonight I was going to really break up with Rebecca. I belonged in a normal relationship with someone like Angie, and as soon as I dumped Rebecca I could get my life back on track.

Passing the Time Warner buildings at Columbus Circle, I rehearsed possible breakup lines. I could use the standard, "It's not you, it's me," or "I think we should start seeing other people." Or, taking the self-deprecating angle, I could say, "I'm not good enough for you you deserve someone better." But I knew those stock lines wouldn't work with Rebecca. She'd think I wasn't serious, and then she'd come on to me, and before I knew it, I'd be back in bed with her.

Maybe I didn't have to say anything just give her the silent treatment.

Or maybe I should take the opposite tactic barge into the apartment like a total psycho, screaming, "Pack your things and get the fuck out, you crazy bitch!" Maybe to get through to a psycho, you had to become psycho.

I shuddered, remembering bashing Ricky's head into the steel door.

Continuing up Broadway, I managed to forget about Ricky but was suddenly bombarded by memories of Barbara on practically every block. I remembered reading magazines at Barnes amp; Noble, eating shrimp dumplings at Ollie's, arguing about the ending of some movie while having spicy tuna rolls at Dan.

Then I veered over to Columbus, passing Banana Republic.

"So do I look like a rock star?"

I was outside the dressing room, modeling a red leather jacket and a pair of black jeans.

"You look gay," Barbara said.

"Gay, rock star, what's the difference?" I said.

Looking into the mirror, I squinted, furrowing my eyebrows, trying to look hip.

"Eh, I guess you're right," I said. "Guess I'll just buy the jeans and those two sweaters. You think I should just get the blue one, or the gray and the blue?"

"I'm moving in with Jay," she said.

I turned around toward her, half smiling, hoping she was joking. "Yeah, right."

"I wanted to tell you before; I was just waiting for the right time."

"And this is the right time?"

"See? I knew you'd get like this."

"Jay's such a dick."

"I love him."

"You don't love him."

"Yes, I do."

"Come on, Barb, you can do so much better than that loser. I mean, the guy's so fucking pompous. And he puts you down all the time, makes all those passive-aggressive comments…"

"I shouldn't've told you."

"I'm not letting you do this."

"You don't own me."

On the corner of Columbus and Seventieth, I bumped into an old woman pushing a wagon filled with groceries.

"Watch it," she said, but I kept walking.

When I arrived at my apartment building I tried to get psyched again for breaking up with Rebecca, but I'd lost my edge. I didn't think I could pull off the psycho act, so I decided I'd be Mr. Sensitive Guy instead. Maybe if she saw how much pain she was causing me, and if I even shed a few tears, she would get the point.

In the hallway outside my apartment I heard rap music blasting and I smelled pot, so I figured Rebecca was having a party. She often had parties without bothering to tell me in advance, of course inviting ten or so friends over to the apartment to eat, smoke, drink, and do drugs, and they wouldn't leave until the middle of the night, or sometimes the next day. It wasn't unusual for me to encounter a few bodies sprawled on the couch or on the living room floor as I was leaving for work in the morning.

I went into the apartment, surprised to see no one around. Maybe the party hadn't started yet.

I turned down the pulsing music.

"What up, yo!" Rebecca called from the kitchen.

I left the foyer and saw Rebecca by the stove, stirring a pot of spaghetti. She looked incredible, almost elegant, in a strapless black dress, high heels, her hair up, but I promised myself that I wouldn't let anything sway me.

"I thought you'd be home later," she said. "I wanted to have everything ready. What happened to your face?"

"Tripped," I said, sick of hearing myself say it.

"Shut up! Where?"

"Outside a bank."

"What bank?"

"Chase."

"Oh, shit."

"It's all right."

"You wanna put frozen peas on it?"

"It's too late for that."

"You sure?"

"Whafre you doing?"

"What do you mean?"

I jutted my chin toward the stove.

"Oh, just cooking you up some dinner," she said. "Why don't you go chill, change into the outfit I laid out for you that sexy Johnny Blaze shirt I bought you and those tight jeans that show off your package?"

I stood there for several seconds, unable to come up with the words I wanted to say, and then I continued down the hallway.

I washed my face in the bathroom, resolving to just go out there and do it, damn it tell her she had two days to move out.

I left the bathroom, noticing that the rest of the apartment was dark.

I made my way to the dining alcove, where Rebecca was seated at the table set for two, a single candle burning in the center. She was holding a glass of wine and there was another glassful across from her.

"You didn't change," she said. Then she must've noticed my tense expression, because she said, "Come on, have some wine. The guy at the liquor store recommended it."

I didn't move.

"Are you, like, pissed at me for something?" she asked. "Because I just want you to know, I have, like, no idea what happened last night.

I remember going out with Ray and everything else is foggy. I know we met people at Chaos and I was dancing with this guy Ramon or Raul who had these really cool dreads? Last thing I remember me, Ray, and these two old guys started drinking. I mixed champagne and vodka. Stupid, right? Then I took a pill and somebody bought me more drinks and I have no idea what happened after that."

"So you really don't remember anything about last night?" I said.

"No, why?" she said. "I didn't do something bad, did I?" She tried to look worried.

"Not really," I said. "Unless you consider throwing a vase at my head bad."

"Shut up! I threw a vase at your head?"

"Only a couple of times."

"Oh, God I'm so sorry."

"You also broke everything from the fireplace mantel."

"I was wondering where everything went."

"I cleaned up the mess this morning."

"I can't believe I did that. I'm really sorry."

"It's too late for sorries. Just pack up and move out tonight."

I tried to walk away but she grabbed my arm, pleading.

"Come on," she said. "I said I'm sorry. I'll pay for everything I broke."

"Pay for it with what?" I said. "You know how much you owe me so far?

You have no intention of paying me back and you know it. Can you let go of my arm, please?"

Still holding on to me, she said, "Look, I know I'm not perfect, all right? I party too much and I go crazy with money and sometimes I, like, lose control. I admit all that, okay? But I swear I'm gonna change. I'll get a job, you can cut up my credit cards. I'll chill out on the clubbing and the partying and I'll stop buying new clothes.

I'll go to thrift shops, and no more Sephora I'll buy my makeup at Duane Reade. I won't take cabs anymore, I'll»

I freed myself and continued past her, saying, "Nothing you say is going to change my mind."

Following me, she said, "Is this because of last night? Because whatever happened, whatever I said or did, I swear to God it'll never happen again."

"It's over," I said. "Just pack your things and move out."

"What do you mean, over?" she said, as if she were hearing me for the first time.

"You have to leave," I said. "I'm sure you can stay with Ray or one of your other friends for a few nights, until you find someplace permanent."

She grabbed my arm harder this time.

"Come on, let's just chill and talk," she said.

"There's nothing to talk about," I said, wriggling my arm free. "I told you from the beginning this wasn't serious, and you agreed.

Remember? You said we were just having fun."

"We were having fun," she said. "Then I fell in love with you."

I laughed, hoping she'd laugh too, but she didn't.

"Come on, you know that's ridiculous," I said. "You love my apartment and my money. You don't love me."

"You really mean that?" she said. "You really think that's, like, what kind of person I am?"

"I heard you talking to your friend Monique."

"Monique? When was I talking to Monique?"

"I don't know, couple of months ago, whenever. I heard what you said, how I'm your puppy dog, how you just want me for my apartment and money."

"I never said that."

"I know what I heard."

"I can't believe this is happening," she said, starting to cry.

"Look," I said, "I admit I was at fault here too. I know I invited you to move in with me and I started lending you money, but that's because I was in a very vulnerable position, because my sister had just died and… Look, none of that is important right now. What's important is that we both have to move on."

Rebecca was staring at me as if in disbelief, a few fake tears dripping down her cheeks.

"I can't believe that's what you really think of me," she said. "I mean, why would I, like, gold dig off you? I mean, you're just like some reporter, making forty-two a year. If I wanted to gold dig, I would've gone after a doctor or a lawyer or an investment banker somebody with real money."

"So maybe you should think about doing that," I said.

I turned around and headed back into the dining area.

"Okay, stop it!" she screamed. "Just fucking stop it!"

I looked back and saw her glaring at me with her hands over her ears, as if to block out the sound of her own screeching voice. I'd seen Rebecca lose it plenty of times, but I'd never seen her act quite like this. She seemed like she was having some kind of breakdown.

"Look," I said. "I really think we should both»

"Stop saying 'look," she said. "I hate it when you say 'look."

"Okay, I think I know what this is all about now," I said. "It's about your past, isn't it?"

"What about my past?"

"The issues you have. Your father leaving and men abandoning you and all that. I know it's not easy for you to let go, but if we both work through this together»

"You don't know me! You have no idea who I am!"

"I'm not saying I know you," I said. "I'm just saying I know what's going on inside your head. I mean, I have trouble letting go myself sometimes; that's why I think if you just move out, without making a big deal»

"There're things about me you don't know," Rebecca said. "If you knew them you wouldn't do this. You'd understand why you can't do this."

I had no idea what she was talking about. I was afraid she was going to have another fit, start throwing things at me again.

"Okay, let's just relax now," I said, "take deep breaths»

"You think I'm this, like, nice, innocent person," she went on, "but I'm not. I'm not like that at all."

"Look»

"Stop saying 'look!" she screamed.

Great, I thought. Now she'd attack me again and Carmen would come to the door, complaining, and we'd have a replay of last night.

"Let's just cool it, all right?" I said. "I'm not trying to get into some he-said, she-said blaming match with you. What I mean is… I mean, it's not me, it's you… I mean, it's me, not you… It's my fault."

"I was married once," she said.

"You were married," I said as a statement.

"Yes, I was married. See, you don't know anything about me. You just think you do."

Rebecca still looked unstable, and I didn't want to say anything to upset her any more.

"His name was David," she added.

"David, huh?"

"Yes, David," she said. "When I met you, I thought it was, like, an omen. I thought that God had brought another David into my life to give me a chance to do things right, to, like, prove I could have a normal relationship? See, things with David and me got fucked-up.

Like, really fucked up."

"Did this 'other David' live in New York?" I asked, convinced she was making this whole story up.

"No, this was when I was living in L.A.," she said. "He owned this bar I used to hang out at in Venice. You know my snake tattoo?" She stuck out her shoulder to show me the tattoo of the coiled python. "David had the same one on the back of his leg he didn't have any more room on his arms. Anyway, he was a lot older than me I was twenty-two; he was forty-two? I guess I was, like, looking for a father figure or something?"

I was staring at her, trying to look like I was believing her.

"Anyway," she said, "after we were going out for, like, a month he was, like, "Let's get married." The wedding was nothing fancy we got in his car and drove to Vegas. We were both drunk during the ceremony it was a blast but when we drove back to L.A. the party was over. I remember the first time he hit me. I couldn't believe it I just stood there, staring at him, my nose gushing blood. After that things started getting bad like, really bad." She was crying. "Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. I mean all that abuse every day. I knew I had to end it somehow, so one day I just…" Her voice faded, overtaken by sobbing. She couldn't answer for several seconds, and then she said,

"I ended it. One day I just ended it."

I knew she was making the whole story up. It was just a lame, desperate, last-ditch attempt to get sympathy from me, and it wasn't going to work.

"Look, I'm very sorry your marriage didn't work out, but»

"Stop saying 'look," she said, clenching her fists.

"All right, look," I said. "I mean, not look. I mean, I think you're a really great person. I'm sure you'll land on your feet, and some guy's gonna be lucky to»

"You still don't get it, do you?" she said. "I don't want 'some guy'

I want you. Before I met you I didn't think I'd ever have a normal relationship with a guy again. I mean, I thought I was, like, cursed or something. Then I met you and fell in love. I know you don't think I care about you, that I'm just into partying and all that? But it's not true. I care about you a lot more than anything in the world. I just have a hard time showing it sometimes, that's all."

She started crying again. She suddenly seemed harmless and innocent, and I had to remind myself that she was insane.

"I'm really sorry about this," I said, "but it's over, so you can just forget about trying to»

She started kissing me. I was trying not to kiss her back, but it was hard to stop myself. Then the phone started ringing.

Holding on to my shoulders, she said, "Let it ring."

"I'll be right back," I said, wriggling free.

I went into the kitchen and picked up.

"David, is that you?"

Shit. I was hoping I'd never hear that annoying, mousy voice again.

"Yes," I said, trying to act natural because Rebecca could overhear us.

"I couldn't do it," Sue said. "The body's still up in my apartment."

Rebecca was looking over, trying to eavesdrop. She was about ten feet away, though, and I hoped she couldn't hear the voice on the other end.

"Oh, hi, Steve," I said, deciding I'd pretend to have a conversation with Steve Pinkus, who worked in Copyediting.

"Steve?" Sue said. "Who the fuck's Steve?"

"No way," I said, smiling.

"Stop dicking around, you stupid asshole," Sue said. "We're in big trouble now, really big trouble, and I wanna know what the hell you're gonna do about it."

"What exactly is the problem?" I asked, looking at Rebecca, who was still watching me.

"I told you the problem, you fuckin' jerk-off I didn't call the cops, so you better get your ass over here right now and do something."

I pictured Ricky, or whatever his real name was, sitting next to Sue, maybe with an ice pack on his head. They must've thought they'd found a real sucker.

"I'm sorry about that," I said, glancing at Rebecca again, who was still listening in.

"Sorry about what?" Sue said. "What're you talking about?"

"Can I send you a new file in the morning?"

"What?"

"That sounds great."

"I'm gonna call the cops right now I'm not playing around, dickhead."

"Okey do key Bye-bye."

I hung up the phone and returned to the dining area.

"Something wrong?" Rebecca asked.

"No, that was just Steve Pinkus in Copyediting. Look, it's nothing personal. I've had some great times with you and I think you're a great person and all that, but I really think we should»

The phone started ringing again.

"Let the machine pick up," Rebecca said in a raspy, sexy voice that usually turned me on.

The phone was still ringing.

"I'll take it in the bedroom," I said.

When I picked up, the answering machine had already answered Ja Rule rapping in the background with Rebecca's voice saying, "We're out having fun right now, but if you leave us a message»

"Hello," I said.

"Hang up on me again and I'm gonna»

"Look, I know what you two are doing," I said in a hushed tone, "and it's not gonna work. So you better go out and find yourself a new sucker, because»

"What're you talking about?" she said. "Ricky's dead, and you better get your stupid ass over here and do something about it."

Sue sounded truly panicked. Maybe it was all a scam Ricky was sitting right next to her, coaching her on what to say and this was all part of the setup.

Or maybe it wasn't.

I took a deep breath, shaking my head, then said, "Gimme half an hour," and hung up.

I remained in the bedroom for a few minutes, trying to pull myself together. Finally I changed into jeans, a sweatshirt, and sneakers, and then I returned to the dining alcove, where Rebecca was still seated, waiting for me.

"Gotta go," I said.

"What do you mean?" she said, frowning.

"Problem with the file for my story," I said. "Gotta go to the office and resend it."

"Can't you do that from here?"

"I didn't back it up on disk."

"Come on."

"Sorry."

"When are you coming back?"

"Hour or so."

"Why so long?"

"I might have to stick around while they copy edit it."

"What about dinner?" She bit down gently on her lip and looked me up and down. "I had a really great dessert planned too."

"Let me know how it was," I said.

I hailed a cab on Columbus and had to say, "Avenue B and Sixth Street," five times, the fifth time practically screaming, before the Russian driver understood what I was saying. As we pulled away, I noticed that the cab reeked of cigarettes. I cranked open the window, letting in bus exhaust and street noise. We passed Spazzia, where Barbara and I used to go for brunch sometimes on Sundays.

"Me and Jay are breaking up," Barbara said to me at a table near the window. She was drinking her second Bloody Mary, her hair cut short to shoulder length.

"I'm sorry," I said, "but I can't say I'm not happy about it."

I reached across the table and touched her wrist; then she yanked her arm away as if I had cooties.

Glaring at me, she said, "You fucked up my whole life," loud enough that a couple at a nearby table looked over. She took a big gulp of her Bloody Mary, almost finishing it, and I wondered if she was drunk.

"Me?" I said. "What did I do?"

"Dr. Kellerman says you're the reason I can't have a functional relationship with a guy."

"I don't know why you pay some guy one-fifty an hour to insult you."

"He said we spend too much time together."

"You're basically the only family I have in the world, so, what, we can't hang out together? Is that some kind of crime?" "I hate you so much right now."

The cab was stuck in traffic near Seventy-second Street, cars and buses all around us honking their horns. I realized the cabdriver was talking to me. "What?" I said.

"You want me to take East Side?" he said with his Russian accent.

"Yeah, fine, whatever," I said, staring out the window. When the cab turned onto Avenue A, I was so certain that Ricky wouldn't be in the apartment I almost considered telling the driver to turn around and head back uptown. Then I remembered how believably desperate Sue had sounded on the phone, and I decided that since I'd come all the way down here I might as well make sure.

I got out at the corner of Sixth and A and headed down the block toward Sue's building. I remembered how relieved I'd felt this afternoon when I'd left there, and it was hard for me to believe that I was going back.

I went into the vestibule and rang apartment fourteen. She buzzed me in and I headed up the stairs. Near the third floor, a thin, light-skinned black guy in an army jacket passed me on the stairs, pushing me hard with his shoulder.

"Hey," I said, but the guy kept going. I hated New Yorkers; I hated people. I wanted to move to the country, deep into Vermont or New Hampshire or better yet Canada. Saskatchewan. I'd live in a cabin with no TV, never see a human face again.

When I reached Sue's floor I caught my breath, then rang the bell to her apartment. I heard footsteps going back and forth. It sounded like one person was in there, but I wondered if Ricky was there too, maybe scrambling to hide.

I rang the bell several times in succession, upset that so much of my time was being wasted, and then Sue opened the door. I noticed that she was shivering as she moved to the side to let me into the apartment.

I entered the foyer and, as I expected, the body wasn't there.

"Look," I said, pointing my index finger, as if scolding a delinquent child, "I've had it with this bullshit. Stay the hell away from me or I'm calling the cops, and I mean it. I don't care what story you have, either the second I hear your voice I'm gonna»

I noticed that Sue wasn't looking at me her gaze was focused to my right and down slightly. I looked over my right shoulder and saw Ricky on his back the lower part of his body inside the bathroom, the upper part in the main part of the apartment a few feet away from me. His eyes were half-open, but perfectly still and glazed over, and his light brown skin had turned a shade of blue.

I stared at the body for a while, then turned to Sue who hadn't budged, and said, "So he's still playing dead, huh? Nice try, but it won't work."

"What the hell're you talking about?" she said. "Have you totally lost it? You better do something. I can't stand having him in the apartment anymore. I can't look at him."

I continued staring at the body in a daze, the truth setting in. I didn't know how I'd managed to convince myself that it hadn't happened.

"You were supposed to take care of this," I said.

"I couldn't, all right?" Sue said.

"Why not?"

"Because I'm a really shitty liar."

"Then why did you tell me»

"Because I thought I could pull it off," she said. "I made a mistake, all right? Go ahead shoot me."

"Call the police now."

"I can't."

"Do it, damn it."

"You do it," she said. "Tell them the truth say you killed him by accident, self-defense, whatever. That's what you wanted to do anyway, right?"

I considered this, but decided it was too late. The police would run tests, realize the body had been here for about seven hours. They would want to know why there was a delay in reporting the incident. I could tell them that I'd panicked and ran away, which was sort of the truth, but with Ricky's head bashed in they'd never believe my self-defense story especially not now.

"That won't work," I said.

"Well, you better do something else then. You're the one who killed him."

"I saved your life."

"Bullshit." She sounded ridiculous, getting angry with that high, squeaky voice. "You know how many times Ricky came at me with a blade?

He wasn't really gonna hurt me he just liked to get macho like that.

You didn't have to ram his head into the door like some maniac."

Now I knew there was no way I could call the cops. Sue would never back up my story and I'd be arrested for murder.

I couldn't believe I'd let this happen. If I hadn't tried to get my wallet back, I could've been home right now.

"Come on," Sue said, "just call the»

"We're not calling anybody."

"Then what're we gonna»

My brain jump started.

"Was Ricky a junkie too?"

Sue stared at me with her glassy, lifeless eyes, then said, "Who're you calling a junkie?"

"Shut up. Was he a junkie too?"

"I'm not a fuckin' junkie."

"Was he a junkie?"

"He shot up once in a while, yeah, but he wasn't a junkie."

"We'll make it look like it was drug-related," I said.

"What're you talking about?"

"The murder, I mean killing whatever. We'll dump the body somewhere.

Tompkins Square Park's right around the corner, right? The cops probably find dead junkies there all the time."

"Ricky wasn't a junkie."

"Shut up," I said, almost shouting. In a much quieter voice I said,

"Does he have track marks?"

I leaned over toward the body to get a closer look at the arms. They looked like pincushions.

"Perfect," I said. "So that's what we'll do. The cops'll think some drug dealer killed him. They had an argument over money and started fighting; then the guy rammed Ricky's head into a tree and killed him.

They'll come talk to you, but they'd never question you. Why would they?"

"It won't work," Sue said.

"Yes, it will," I said.

"How're we supposed to get him to the park?"

"We'll carry him."

"You crazy? He weighs one-sixty-five."

"So?"

"What if somebody sees us?"

"We'll wait till later the middle of the night. Four, five in the morning. It's just down the stairs, then a block or two to the park."

"The cops won't believe it was over drugs."

"Why not?"

"Why would a dealer kill him?"

"For money."

"If the dealer killed him he'd never get his money."

"Maybe he didn't mean to kill him."

"If a dealer was after him he wouldn't bust his skull," Sue said. "He'd shoot him, or cut him, or something like that."

"Maybe there was a struggle," I said, "a fight and… Or maybe it wasn't over drugs, all right? Maybe somebody just tried to mug him kids. Or maybe he got into a fight said something to the wrong guy.

That happens all the time two guys fighting over a parking space and one guy flips and starts beating the other guy up."

"Why would they be fighting over a parking space in the park?" Sue asked.

"The fight could've been over anything," I said, losing patience. "The cops'll find his body in the park, they'll think he was killed fighting, and that'll be the end of it."

"I don't care," Sue said. "Say whatever you want. But I'm not helping you carry him anywhere."

"Oh, yes, you are."

"You can't make me."

"You're right, I can't. But you think if I get caught I won't turn you in too? I'll say you were an accessory, or an accessory after the fact, or whatever the hell they call it. They'll put us both away for a long time."

"So let them put me in jail," Sue said. "What the fuck do I care?"

"You can't get any heroin in jail," I said. "They won't give you anything to dry out with either. You think you can handle that? I don't think so."

My last words seemed to have an effect on her. Sick of looking at her face, I turned away; then I realized I was staring at the body, at the blue-gray lips, parted slightly and swelling, and I turned again quickly. I didn't want to look at Sue anymore either, but the apartment was tiny, like a cage, and it was hard to avoid her. I stood with my arms crossed in front of my chest, rocking back and forth nervously, staring at the wall adjacent to the refrigerator.

"So what are we gonna do now?" Sue asked.

"Wait," I said.

Sue remained on her futon, cross-legged, staring at nothing, and I remained facing the wall. I noticed a roach a good-sized one, about an inch long moving vertically toward the floor. It was robust, shiny, moving at a good, steady pace, definitely thriving in its environment.

I continued to watch it as it reached the floor, went around a plastic Pepsi bottle, around mouse or maybe rat droppings, and disappeared swiftly into a space between the wall and the floorboards.

I realized that my face and neck were sweating.

"You sure that fan doesn't work?" I asked.

"I told you, it broke," Sue said.

"It must be ninety fucking degrees in here," I said, wiping sweat from my forehead with the back of my wrist. "I don't know how the hell you live here."

"Sorry, it's not the fucking Plaza Hotel," she said.

Sue looked away and I noticed another roach coming from near the stove.

I stomped on the roach, rubbing the shiny pieces into the floor, and then I sat down on one of the chairs, hoping sitting would make me sweat less. It didn't work. Sweat was dripping off of my forehead like I was a basketball player in the fourth quarter.

"How come this building's such a dump anyway?" I asked.

"What're you talking about?" she said.

"There's garbage piled up downstairs, you got roaches and mice. The rest of the neighborhood's gentrified. How come they didn't gentrify this place yet?"

"You mean how come it's not infested with yuppies yet?"

"Yeah," I said.

"It's a rent-controlled building," she said. "People've been living here for years."

"So lots of buildings are rent controlled," I said, "but they're not hellholes like this place. I mean, the stairwell's disgusting, it's infested with God knows what, it's about a thousand degrees in here»

"The landlord's trying to get people to move out so he can raise the rents."

"That's against the law."

Sue shrugged and said, "It's not working anyway. People in this building aren't going anywhere no matter what he does."

"Still, you must be paying a decent amount for this place. How do you afford it?"

"What the fuck do you care?"

"I'm just curious. I mean, do you make all your money turning tricks and selling wallets or do you have a day job too?"

"Fuck you."

"I'm serious. Heroin's gotta be an expensive habit, and you must eat, what, once or twice a week, right? After that, there must not be too much leftover for rent money."

"Maybe I don't pay rent," she said smugly.

"What?" I said. "Your psychotic, jealous, knife-wielding boyfriend helped you out?"

"Maybe I just worked out a special deal with my landlord."

"A free-rent deal?"

"Yeah, a free-rent deal."

"And how exactly does that work?"

"Easy," she said. "I meet him in his car a couple times a week and he lets me slide on the rent."

"So you really are screwing your landlord."

"I don't fuck him," she said as if the idea disgusted her. "I just blow him."

"Classy," I said. "You should be really proud of yourself."

"You just wish you had a setup like that."

"That's true," I said. "I wish I was giving my landlord blow jobs. Why didn't I ever think of that?"

"Beats working for a living," she said. "Going to an office every day, having somebody tell you what to do."

"True," I said. "And you can make your own hours too."

"Right." Then, realizing I was being sarcastic, she said, "You can suck my dick, asshole. You think you're all that? Mr. Hotshot Business Writer Man living on West Eighty-first Street."

I gave her a long stare, then said, "You really studied my wallet, didn't you? You know where I live. I bet you know my Social Security number, credit card numbers, place of birth, mother's maiden name…"

"You think you're so much better than me," she said, "but you're not.

Where're you from? Wait, let me guess you got a New York accent, but you're not from Manhattan. You from Staten Island? Brooklyn? Queens?"

"I'm from Long Island."

"Ooh, big-shot bridge-and-tunnel man. Probably didn't come from the rich part of the Island either you're probably from White Trashville, out near Stony Brook. You know where I'm from? Bloomfield Hills, Michigan, buddy. In case you don't know, that's a very ritzy area. My parents had a twelve-room house, filled with classy furniture."

"Sounds like you had a great life," I said.

"I did," she said. "At least, I did till you came along and fucked everything up. I was gonna go on the juice and quit hooking and me and Ricky were gonna open a business together."

"A business, huh?"

"Yeah, a business. An antique store, if you really wanna know. I have a good eye for that stuff. See those chairs? I found them on the street last week and I'm gonna sell them for fifty bucks apiece. Girl's coming to pick them up this weekend. I have a good eye I always spot bargains. I bought some silverware once sterling silver for twenty bucks at a flea market. I sold it the next day to an antique dealer on Lafayette Street for two-fifty."

"And I'm sure the profits went to a really great cause," I said.

Ignoring me, she said, "Yeah, I have a great eye for bargains. If I opened my antique store it would've been a big success. I wasn't just gonna sell antiques; I was gonna sell cheese."

"Cheese?" I said.

"Yeah, cheese," she said. "You know the place uptown that sells cheese and antiques?"

"No."

"Well, it's a really classy place, and my place was gonna be just like it. Ricky was gonna give me the start-up money, but thanks to you, that's all shot to fuckin' hell."

I rolled my eyes and looked away, deciding that I wouldn't say another word to her for the rest of the night.

We were both quiet for a long time maybe ten or fifteen minutes.

Sitting on one of the chairs, I stared at the brick wall mainly, following the paths of a couple of new baby roaches that had appeared, but a few times I couldn't help looking toward the bathroom, at Ricky's body. Sue seemed to be becoming more and more anxious and fidgety rocking back and forth, making weird clucking noises with her mouth.

I couldn't take sitting anymore, so I started pacing.

"Why don't you just sit down?" Sue said. "You're making me fucking nervous."

I ignored her.

Maybe another five minutes passed, and then Sue said, "Or if you don't want to sit you can lie down here with me."

I did a doubletake, thinking I might've missed something. Then I looked at Sue and saw her returning my gaze in a way that convinced me that I had been propositioned. I didn't know why I was so surprised.

"Come on," she said, continuing to fidget in a more exaggerated way wiping her nose every few seconds, her legs shaking. "It'll only cost you fifty bucks."

I imagined climbing on top of her thin, heroin-addicted body; although the idea disgusted me, there was something exciting about it too.

"Come on, lemme relax you," Sue said, rubbing her nose. "I mean you look so nervous, pacing around. I'll make you feel real good, baby.

What do you say?"

"The answer's no."

She was quiet for a few seconds, then said, "Okay, I'll give you the Upper West Side business writer's special. I'll suck your cock for twenty-five."

I looked away, shaking my head. When I looked over again she'd taken off her shirt. First I noticed her ribcage the bones clearly visible and then my gaze shifted higher, toward where breasts should've been.

It looked like a man's chest or rather a boy's, an emaciated boy's, except for the surprisingly big brown nipples. It was sad because her face wasn't bad-looking, and if she were twenty pounds heavier and hadn't poisoned her body with heroin she would've been very attractive.

"Come on, why won't you fuck me?" she said, stroking her breasts softly. "I could tell you were thinking about it before. Come on, baby, you can have a whole half hour and I'll do whatever you want.

I'll make you feel so good."

"Will you just put your top back on?"

"Fuckin' faggot," she muttered as she put her shirt on and continued fidgeting and twitching. I paced from the refrigerator to the stove and back, feeling as pent-up as one of the miserable-looking gorillas they used to have in the Central Park Zoo. My feet were hurting and I was still sweating badly; I wondered if I was starting to get dehydrated. I went to the sink and gulped down water from the faucet, some of it dribbling down my chin and neck. After splashing some water over my face I actually felt slightly refreshed. I glanced at Sue, but she was looking away, pulling on her hair, scratching her arms. I opened the refrigerator, hoping there would be something to eat, but there was nothing except a bag of Wonder bread with only a couple of stale-looking end pieces inside, an empty can of Franco-American ravioli, some blackened banana peels, and a couple of loose slices of American cheese that looked hardened. Then I caught a nauseating whiff of something rotting and I closed the door quickly.

"I eat out a lot," Sue said.

I looked over at her and smiled slightly, then realized she wasn't trying to be funny. I started pacing again. After awhile, I decided I'd better conserve my energy, and I sat in one of the chairs.

Sue was still shifting anxiously from side to side, still making those clucking noises. I was about to tell her to shut the hell up when she said, "So if you don't want to fuck me maybe you'll give me fifty bucks anyway."

I ignored her.

"Come on, it's just fifty," she said. "Fuck, I could've gotten a thousand from you if I met you tomorrow night."

"I guess you blew it then, didn't you?" I said.

A few more minutes passed, and then she said, "You ever shoot dope?"

I didn't want to answer her, so I just shook my head.

"Man, you don't know what you're missing," she said. "The first time I shot up I couldn't believe how good it felt. It feels like you're just floating away, like you're nothing. Hey, I got an idea. You let me go out and get some, we'll shoot up together. Don't worry, I'll get you a clean needle. Come on, I love turning on virgins."

"I have enough problems in my life," I said. "I don't need yours too."

"Trust me," she said, "after you shoot dope all your problems go away."

"Forget about it," I said.

"Faggot-ass fuckin' prick asshole piece of shit," she said, suddenly venomous. "You're just a stupid fucking faggot, that's what you are."

I started pacing again. Sue's tics had gotten even more exaggerated now, and her face was cringing, as if she were in serious pain.

"You okay?" I asked. She didn't answer, and then I said, "Really, are you feeling all right? Is there something I can get you? A glass of water or a piece of that cheese? Or maybe you want a wet towel."

"If you really want to help me you'll give me fifty so I can go out and take a fuckin' walk," she said.

She continued looking pained.

I ignored her for a while, then said, "Not that I really give a shit, but how did your life get so screwed up anyway?"

She didn't answer.

"Come on, I really want to know," I said. "I mean, you seem intelligent, you're not so bad-looking, and you said you were from that nice area in Michigan. You must've had a good family, went to good schools»

"Fuck you."

"What?"

"Talking down to me like you're a fucking priest or something. You fucking asshole."

"I'm just trying to connect the dots."

"I gotta get the hell outta here," she said, standing up.

"Yeah, right," I said.

"I'll be back in a half hour, tops," she said. "Come on, what do you think I'm gonna do?"

"Oh, I know what you're gonna do. You're gonna go to the first phone booth you see and call the cops. You'll tell them a guy killed your boyfriend and if they don't believe you they can just go up to your apartment and see because he's still there."

"I'm not gonna rat you out, all right? I'll come right back here and we'll do it the way you want we'll carry Ricky down to the park. I think that's a great idea, so why don't you just»

"Sit down," I said.

She tried to bolt past me to get to the door, but I grabbed her skeleton arm and yanked her back toward me. She stumbled over her own feet and I let go of her and she fell down onto the floor onto her side.

"Fucking cocksucking piece of shit," she said.

We glared at each other, the showdown lasting for maybe ten seconds.

Finally she settled back down on the futon, fidgeting and rocking back and forth. Although I was looking away, I was watching her in my peripheral vision; if she made a sudden bolt toward the door I was going to block her. I realized that if, later on, she became even more desperate for a fix, it would be harder to restrain her. I started looking around, for rope or something else in the apartment that I could use to tie her up if I had to, but I didn't see anything.

"You know what I don't get?" Sue said. "I don't get why you wanted your stupid wallet back so bad anyway. If you just told me to fuck off right away Ricky'd still be alive."

I was going to remind her that she was the one who called me about the wallet, but I didn't want to get into that again.

"I mean, you paid one-fifty for it," she went on. "That's a lot just to get your license and some canceled credit cards back. I would've taken twenty bucks."

I squatted, facing the wall, noticing a monster-size water bug scamper from under the sink toward the refrigerator. I stared at the bottom of the refrigerator, waiting to see if the bug would appear again.

"You really are a nut job, aren't you?" she said. She sat with her head hanging between her knees for a while; then she looked up at me again and said, "Say whatever you want about me. Say I'm a junkie, say I'm a whore, say whatever the fuck you want, but look at you. You're the one who's fucked up. Look what you did look what you fuckin' did. You didn't have to kill him. You could've just got the knife away, held him down, but you didn't. You kept going. I saw the way you looked when you did it. You looked whacked, like you were getting off on it."

I was still staring at the bottom of the refrigerator, waiting for the bug to come out, when the doorbell rang. Sue looked as panicked as I probably did. We stared at each other and the bell rang three more times in quick succession. There was a period of silence, and then a man said, "Come on, I know you're in there. Come on, open up."

"Who the hell is that?" I whispered.

"Shit," Sue whispered harshly, as the ringing started again. "See, I told you we should've called the cops, you stupid fuckin' idiot. I told you.

THE BELL MUST have rung twenty times. Sue and I remained still. I was hoping whoever it was would finally give up and go away, but then a harsh voice said, "Hey, Ricky, open up, will ya? Come on, I gotta talk to you, for Christ's sake. Charlotte, I know you're fuckin' there too.

Come on, I heard you guys talking. Will you put your fuckin' clothes on and let me in?"

"Who the hell's Charlotte?" I whispered Sue gave me a Who do you think, stupid? look as the bell rang again.

"Come on, what're you gonna do, make me break the fuckin' door down?" the man said. "Come on, Ricky, what're you doing, getting your dick sucked in there? Come on, open up!"

There was more ringing and then the guy started banging on the door. It sounded like he was using his fists.

"I better let him in," Charlotte said, getting up.

I grabbed her arm. It felt like I was gripping a broom handle.

"Sit down," I whispered.

"We gotta let him in," Charlotte said, "or he'll»

"He'll go away," I said.

The banging was getting louder.

"Come on, Ricky," the voice said. "I know you're fuckin' in there, you little piece of shit."

"You don't know Kenny," Charlotte said. "He won't go away. Ricky owed him money, and he won't leave till he gets it."

The banging continued.

"Take the body in the bathroom," Charlotte said.

"The bathroom?" I said.

"Open up!" Kenny said. "Just open the fucking door."

"I'll be right there!" Charlotte called out.

The banging stopped. I looked at Charlotte, wanting to strangle her.

"Go," she whispered.

Avoiding looking at Ricky's face, I lifted him by the sneakers. The body wasn't as stiff as I expected it to be, but it was stiff enough to remind me that he was dead. I backed into the bathroom, taking little shuffle steps. There was barely enough room for a toilet, a shower stall, and a tiny sink. The body and I didn't fit at least, not with the body horizontal. The banging on the door continued and the doorbell kept ringing, but I couldn't tell what the guy was saying. I lifted the body up under its shoulders. At first, it was facing me, which was getting me kind of sick, so I turned it around one hundred and eighty degrees. Then I became aware of an odor of shit, probably from a postmortem bowel movement, and I couldn't hold back. Somehow I made it to over the toilet in time, managing to keep the body upright as I vomited. Charlotte poked her head into the bathroom.

"What the hell're you doing?" she whispered.

I upchucked again. It must've been old food, because it felt like battery acid was passing through my throat.

"Come on, just flush," Charlotte said.

Then, from outside the apartment: "Come on, Ricky, Charlotte, just open the fucking door. Jesus."

"I'll be right there!" Charlotte called out, and then she leaned around me and flushed the toilet.

"What're you doing?" I said weakly. Talking hurt, as if I had tonsillitis. "Now he'll know somebody's in the bathroom."

"Just get in there and shut up," Charlotte said.

Gritting my teeth, I lifted the body and carried it in front of me into the shower stall. It was a small, cramped shower, tiled with what had probably once been off-white or light yellow tiles, but they were brown now, covered with soap scum and mildew. I tried to prop the body upright against the back of the wall, but it kept slipping forward.

"Come on," Charlotte whispered urgently.

Grinding my back teeth, I held on to the body as I tried to close the shower door. The door was corroded and kept popping open, so I had to stand there with one hand on the door handle, the other pushing the body back against the wall. The stench of shit was worse now and I was trying not to breathe too deeply.

Charlotte left the bathroom and closed the door. I heard the locks on the front door turning and then the door squeaked open.

"About fuckin' time," Kenny said. "What were you doing, hitting up?"

I heard heavy footsteps entering the apartment.

"So what the fuck took you so long?" Kenny asked.

"I was in the bathroom, puking," Charlotte said.

"What'd you do, suck a rotten cock?" Kenny laughed. "So where's my boy, Ricky?"

"He's not here."

"You're shittin' me. He said he'd be around tonight."

"Well, he's not."

"You sure he's not hiding somewhere? The fuckin' prick owes me money."

Footsteps headed in my direction. My entire body tensed.

"Don't go in there," Charlotte said.

The footsteps stopped.

"Why not?"

"I had the shits too."

"You must've sucked a lot of rotten cocks." Kenny laughed.

The footsteps headed away, but I couldn't relax. It was Kenny's voice.

It had sounded vaguely familiar before, but now I knew where I'd heard it last night, at the bar. Kenny was Eddie Lomack.

My body temperature seemed to go up ten degrees. Fucking Charlotte had lied to me about a lot more than her name.

The conversation continued; I'd missed some of it.

"Gino's?" Kenny asked.

"I don't know, maybe," Charlotte said.

"Why would he go to Gino's?"

"I didn't say he went there. I just heard him saying he might go by there later."

The talking and the footsteps sounded farther away. Maybe they were near the futon now.

"You sure he didn't jump out the window and go down the fire escape?"

Kenny said. "I coulda sworn I heard you talking to somebody before I started knocking."

"It was the radio," Charlotte said.

"Son of a bitch," Kenny said. "I lent him a hundred last night, said he needed to buy some food, but I shoulda known he'd just blow it on more junk."

"Look, he's not here. Just check Gino's, all right?" Charlotte said.

"You're really hard up, huh?" Kenny said. "What's the matter, Ricky blew all his money on his own stash last night, didn't share anything with his beautiful whore girlfriend?"

"Look, Ricky's not here, so why don't you just get the fuck outta here, you fuckin' asshole."

"You don't look too good, sweetheart," Kenny said. "Yeah, you must be hitting it hard these days, huh?" I pictured him smiling, the way he had last night at the bar while he was distracting me with pictures of the centerfolds. "Probably going through, what, ten, fifteen bags a day? Probably hadn't had any in what, a few hours? Yeah, you're real hungry now."

"You got some or not?" Charlotte said.

"Come on, you know I'm on the fuckin' juice," Kenny said. "But look what I do got… It'll buy you a couple bags. Keep you going another few hours… Hey, not so fast. You're gonna have to work for it, baby."

"Come on, Kenny, just gimme it."

"What, Ricky's not around, so what difference does it make? In fifteen minutes you can be scoring, baby. Then you could be back up here, cooking it up nice and sweet it'll make you feel so good, baby. Bet you haven't felt that good in a long time so long you probably forgot what it feels like. But hey, it's up to you. If you don't want it…"

"You want to fuck me, stop talking and take your little dick out,"

Charlotte said.

"Little?" Kenny said. "That look little to you?"

The apartment got quiet, and then Kenny said, "Yeah, like that, bitch.

Work it just like that." Then, about a minute later, I heard Kenny's moaning. It sounded like a sick animal, or a dying one. He was talking too. At first I couldn't make out the words; then I could hear some of them. It sounded like dialogue from a bad porno movie.

He was saying, "Keep doing it like that… Yeah, just like that, bitch … Fuck me harder, yeah… Keep fucking me that way… Yeah… Play with my balls now… Yeah, play with those balls, you little slut." I didn't know what was making me more nauseous: holding up a dead body or trying to fight off the images of Kenny and Charlotte that kept coming to me. The aftertaste of vomit in my mouth wasn't helping, and I had to concentrate on more pleasant things sunny weather, the ocean, solid food, a beautiful woman Rebecca. No, not Rebecca. Shit, anybody but Rebecca. Angie. Yes, Angie. Angie's face to keep from throwing up again.

As the fucking went on, the only noises came from Kenny until he ordered Charlotte to "Come for me, baby. Come on, come for me," and she let out a series of lame, obviously fake squeals. I imagined her lying there on the futon on her back, just waiting for it to end so she could go shoot up.

Kenny's grunting and bad porno dialogue continued, and then, just when it seemed like the sex might never end, Kenny let out three louder grunts and then there was sudden silence.

There was more talking, but it was low and I couldn't hear what they were saying. Then I heard Kenny, his voice suddenly louder, say,

"Wait, I gotta use the John Hancock."

Every muscle in my body tensed.

"Wait, don't go in there," Charlotte said, her voice close now too.

They must've both been right outside the door.

"Why not?" Kenny asked.

"I stunk up the bathroom really bad."

"So what the fuck do I care?"

As the door opened, I crouched down, managing to keep one hand on. the shower door handle and the other holding the body upright by pressing it against the back of the stall. If it wasn't for the mildew on the shower door, which was denser toward the bottom, Kenny could have easily seen in. As it was, he would've probably been able to see me if he looked in my direction.

Kenny hawked up a wad of spit; it splashed into the bowl, and then he started peeing.

"Liar, it don't stink in here!" he yelled. Then he added, "Hey, some of your chunks missed the bowl!"

He finished peeing. He didn't bother to flush, and then I saw the shadow of his legs pass by the shower door and stop. I thought he was going to look inside the stall, but then I heard the handle on the bathroom door turn and he left. My heart must've been racing at two hundred beats a minute.

"Where's my money?" Charlotte asked.

"Easy," Kenny said. "You'll get your skag, you'll get your skag."

"Come on," Charlotte said urgently. "Let's go."

The front door opened then closed. I waited several seconds, making sure they were really gone. Then I got up, leaving the body propped up diagonally, bent slightly near the neck and shoulders, and left the stall and the bathroom.

I never thought I could feel so relieved to be in the main area of the apartment. I was like a prisoner, released from solitary confinement and put back into his jail cell. But after a few minutes I started feeling pent up again. I had to leave, go outside, or I was going to lose my mind. I considered going downstairs, just for a few minutes, but I decided it was too dangerous. Someone could see me leaving the apartment, or someone could come in the apartment because I'd have to leave the door unlocked. I went to the one window in the room; it was partway open and I opened it further. Child safety bars were screwed into the sill, and it horrified me to think that a child had once lived in this shithole. I leaned over the bars, bringing my nose as close to the screen as I could without touching it, and breathed. The apartment was facing the back of another, taller building, maybe forty feet away, and the air didn't seem to be circulating much better than inside the apartment. Still, I remained there, with my nose near the screen, trying to get a hold of myself. I noticed a young guy in an apartment across from the building. He was lying on a couch in his underwear, watching TV, holding a green bottle probably a cold beer. I hoped he knew how good he had it.

I started pacing the apartment again, wondering if Charlotte was going to go to the police. I didn't know why she would at this point, but I didn't have any reason to trust her either.

Several minutes went by, and I was becoming increasingly convinced that Charlotte was going to make up a story and turn me in, when my cell phone started ringing. The sudden noise startled me, and I realized how lucky I was that I didn't get a call while I was hiding in the shower. I checked the caller ID it was my home number then I shut the phone off.

I knew Rebecca wouldn't give up. She'd keep calling me, on my cell and at work, trying to get through. I didn't care about pissing her off, but I realized that if the police did wind up investigating me I'd have no alibi. If I called Rebecca back and told her I was at my office it wouldn't help, because I still wouldn't be able to prove I was there.

I had to stay positive, pray that Charlotte wasn't dumb enough to go to the cops, and that I'd never even be a suspect in the case.

The heat and the lack of fresh air in the apartment were unbearable, and the entire room was starting to smell like my body odor. Every time I heard a noise outside the apartment I hoped that the next sound I'd hear would be a key turning in the lock.

At midnight, there was still no sign of her. I was exhausted and starving the turkey sandwich for lunch was all I'd eaten all day and I didn't know how much longer I could last.

Around one a.m. I heard a noise outside the apartment. Convinced it was Charlotte, I rushed to the foyer, but the noise stopped.

Impulsively I opened the door, realizing what a stupid thing I'd done only when I saw that Charlotte wasn't there. Instead, the young black guy who'd knocked into me on the stairwell before was standing by the door to the left. He was fumbling with his key chain, trying to find the key to his apartment. Before I could duck back into Charlotte's apartment he turned around and looked right at me. I mumbled, "Sorry," and he turned away, continuing to jingle his keys.

Back in the apartment, I knelt with my face buried in my open hands. If I hadn't opened the door, if I hadn't let that guy see me, I would've had a chance. But now when the police came to question Charlotte tomorrow they'd probably talk to her neighbors too, asking, "Did you notice anything unusual at Charlotte and Ricky's apartment last night?"

The guy next door would mention me, give them a full description and shit I'd even talked, so now he could ID my voice.

I tried to convince myself that it wasn't as bad as it seemed. The guy had looked out of it, and there was a chance he might not remember me at all tomorrow, or at least he wouldn't remember me well enough to give a description. This gave me some hope, but not much.

The next time I checked my watch it was past two-thirty. I had no idea what was holding Charlotte up. Even if she was planning to bring a cop back with her, it wouldn't take her this long. I wondered if she was dead. She could've OD'd and was lying in an alley somewhere. But if she was dead that wouldn't help me. I couldn't leave because that guy had seen me, and with Charlotte unable to back up my self-defense story, I'd be screwed. I decided I'd give her till about half an hour before dawn. If she wasn't back by then I'd have no choice but to take the body outside by myself.

Another excruciating hour went by, and then I heard the lock in the front door turn. I rushed over as Charlotte entered, and I was surprised by her appearance, by how much better she looked. Her pained expression was gone and she seemed noticeably calmer and more relaxed.

Except for her thin, ghostly face, she seemed almost normal.

"Where the hell've you been?" I asked. "It's almost four fucking a.m."

"Thanks for waiting up, Daddy," she said, stepping past me. She tossed her ripped denim jacket off to the side and then plopped down onto the futon. I did a double take, surprised all over again at how thin her arms and shoulders were. She was dangerously emaciated and probably needed medical help.

"You've been gone six hours," I said.

"You gonna ground me, Daddy?"

I hated the way she was suddenly so relaxed, acting like this was no big deal.

"Come on, let's go," I said. "We're doing it right now."

"Doing what?"

"What the hell do you think?"

"We should wait."

"We're not waiting."

"The after hours places are still open," she said. "There're still a lot of people out there. Give it another hour and the streets'll start to clear out."

The idea of spending another hour in the apartment seemed unbearable, but I realized that it probably made sense to wait.

I turned away, but there was no way to get away from her. She had closed her eyes and had her arms flung back over her head. She wasn't fidgeting or twitching anymore, like she had been earlier in the night.

She looked like she was spending a relaxing afternoon on the beach. It was easy to imagine how she might've looked fifteen, twenty years ago, when she was a rich girl growing up in Michigan. She could've been lounging next to a pool in her parents' backyard.

"So're you gonna tell me the truth now or what?" I said.

"What do you mean?" she said, not bothering to open her eyes. She sounded like she'd been falling asleep.

"Come on," I said, "I know you've been lying to me since the second I walked in here so just tell me what the hell's going on."

"I didn't lie to you."

"Really, Sue."

She opened her eyes, looked at me for a couple of seconds, then closed them again, acting as annoyingly nonchalant as before. Then she said,

"Sue's my street name."

"You stole my wallet last night, didn't you?" I said.

"I told you, I found it on the bus»

"Stop fucking lying to me," I said. "I recognized your friend Kenny's voice only he told me his name was Eddie. I guess that was his 'street name' too, huh?"

"Kenny's not my friend."

"Sorry," I said, "Ricky's friend who you don't mind fucking every once in a while for drug money even if the love of your life happens to be dead in the bathroom at the time."

"You got it all wrong, you stupid asshole," Charlotte said. "Kenny wasn't at the bar you were at last night."

"Yes, he was," I said. "He distracted me while you picked my pocket."

"I told you, I found your wallet on the bus."

I went over and grabbed her arm above her elbow and lifted her up to a sitting position.

"You stole my wallet last night, didn't you?"

"What're you gonna do, kill me? Go ahead do it. I really don't give a shit."

I continued to squeeze her arm, which felt like a broom handle. She didn't seem to feel any pain.

After maybe ten seconds she said, "If you let go, I'll tell you."

Finally I loosened my grip and she wriggled free. She remained sitting, rubbing her arm, which seemed to have turned slightly purple.

"See, I knew you were a fuckin' basket case," she said.

I moved toward her again when she said, "Kenny and Ricky took your wallet I had nothing to do with it, and that's the God's honest truth.

They stole shit off people all the time. They sometimes worked the subways, but they did midtown mostly. They hung out at bars and looked for drunk tourists I guess that's what they thought you were. Anyway, they took your wallet last night, and Ricky came home with it. He took all the money out and left the wallet here, so I decided to call you to give it back to you."

I gave her a Yeah, right look.

"It's the truth," she said, "and I don't give a shit if you believe me or not."

"You're lying," I said. "Ricky wasn't at the bar with Kenny last night you were. If Ricky was there he would've recognized me when he walked into the apartment today."

"Maybe he didn't get a good look at you last night," Charlotte said.

I realized this was possible. Whoever had picked my pocket had been behind me and might not have gotten a good look at my face.

"Maybe," I said, "but I still don't get why he attacked me. I mean, if you bring guys back here all the time»

"I don't do it all the time," she said defensively. "I usually do it outside in cars, mostly."

"Still," I said. "That doesn't explain why he'd flip out and pull a knife on me."

"Ricky was in love with me."

I must've rolled my eyes.

"I don't give a shit what you think," she said. "We were gonna get married soon. We were gonna open that antique store too and save up money and move to a bigger apartment someplace. Maybe in Queens or the Bronx. Ricky had family in the Bronx."

"Stop with that bullshit," I said. "If you and Ricky were so in love, why were you fucking other guys for money? Why were you fucking your landlord, for Christ's sake?"

"I wasn't fucking him!" she screamed, starting to cry.

"And why were you so quick to take the rap for his murder?" I said, not letting up. "You mourned for exactly two minutes then you were out to make a quick thousand bucks off it. That really sounds like true love to me."

"I did love him, you fuckin' prick."

As Charlotte wiped away more tears with the back of her hand, I checked my watch. It wasn't four a.m. yet, but I felt like if I stayed in the apartment another minute I was going to lose my mind.

"We're going," I said.

"It's not late enough," she said.

"You got bed-sheets, a rug, something to wrap the body in?"

"We should wait till»

"We're not waiting!"

She paused, then said, "All I got is what's on the bed."

"Get up," I said.

She stood up slowly, like an old woman with arthritis. The cotton blanket was too thin to conceal a body. I pulled the sheet off the futon, noticing all the cum and blood stains, but it wasn't nearly big enough or thick enough.

I picked up the rug in front of the bed, but it was too small, maybe two by four.

"You got anything else?" I said. "Another blanket or rug?"

She shook her head.

"Come on," I said. "You must have something."

I went to the one closet in the apartment, near the front door. Hanging from wire hangers were dirty, torn clothes jackets, coats, shirts, pants that the Salvation Army wouldn't even accept. On the floor were some boxes of things and a duffel bag, but it was much too small to use.

"Jesus," I said.

"Wait till the stores open in the morning," Charlotte said. She had sat back down on the bare futon mattress. "You can buy a blanket then."

"And wait another day in here?" I said. "Are you out of your fucking mind?" I looked around the apartment again, coming up with no new great ideas, then said, "We'll just carry him between us like he's drunk or he ODIt could be better that way anyway. In this neighborhood that'll look less suspicious than carrying a rug or laundry down at four in the morning."

Dropping the sheet on the floor, I went into the bathroom. The body must've slid forward on the soap-scummed wall, because when I opened the door to the shower stall it fell out toward me. Despite my physical and mental exhaustion, my reflexes were quick enough to catch it by its shoulders. It was about as stiff as before, but it seemed to have gotten colder. Ignoring a surge of nausea, I held the body upright outside the shower stall.

"I need something a rag or shirt or something," I called out.

"What?" Charlotte said.

"I need…" I looked up at the vent above the sink. It was clogged with puffy gray dust, but I knew my voice still might be able to travel to another apartment.

"Just come here," I said in a quieter voice. When Charlotte came into the bathroom I said, "I need a shirt or a rag or something make it wet."

"What for?"

"Just get it."

Charlotte returned about a minute later with a damp T-shirt. Managing to keep the body upright, I scrubbed the sneakers as best I could, even doing the bottoms, and then I wiped the legs of Ricky's jeans, even though I knew fingerprints couldn't be found there. I wasn't even sure the sneakers needed to be wiped down, but I wanted to be as safe as possible.

When I was confident I'd done the best I could, I said to Charlotte,

"Okay, here's what we do. We carry the body down between us as fast as we can, and we don't stop till we get to the park. Tomorrow, when it's discovered, the cops'll come tell you. Just start crying, the way you did before, and there should be no problem. They'll probably ask you"

"I can't," she said.

"Yes, you can," I said. "Just say you know nothing about it and»

"No, I mean I can't carry the body down. I can't touch it."

"What do you mean?" I said. "You touched it before."

"I know, but I can't again. I can't even look at him anymore."

She turned away, toward the door. Still supporting the body with my left hand, I grabbed Charlotte's head with my right hand and forced it back around.

"Look at it," I said. "Get used to it, because you're helping me carry it down."

Her eyes were closed.

"Fuck you," she said. "I'm not going anywhere."

I realized that I couldn't force her to go with me, and arguing with her was just wasting time.

"Fine," I said, "but after I leave, I never want to see your pathetic face again. And when the cops talk to you, you better lie good, because if I go down I'm taking you with me. Got that?"

Charlotte nodded slowly. I tried to lift Ricky's left arm over my shoulder, figuring I'd carry him down that way, but the arm was too stiff and I could barely move it. Instead, I grabbed him from behind in a bear hug and started backing my way out of the bathroom, getting nauseous from the smell of shit. I saw Charlotte, back on the futon, lying on her side, facing away. I'd started walking forward now, shuffle-stepping, holding the body in front of me. When I got to the front door I was already sweating and gasping.

In the hallway I looked in both directions, especially toward the neighbor's door to the left; except for music playing in a lower-floor apartment, it was quiet, and no one was around. I tilted the body horizontally and held it by my side, as if I were transporting a heavy rug. But it didn't feel like a rug; it felt like a stiff, heavy, cold body. Sucking it up, I headed down the stairs as fast as I could.

Halfway down the first flight I was already exhausted, and I didn't see how I could possibly make it. I'd had an off-and-on sacroiliac problem since injuring myself carrying a metal filing cabinet home from a thrift shop a few years ago, and the way I was struggling on the fourth floor landing I didn't see how I could possibly make it all the way to Tompkins Square Park without throwing my back out or having a heart attack.

I considered dragging the body behind me and letting it bounce on the stairs, but I figured it would make too much noise. Then, heading down the next flight, I realized how idiotic the whole plan was. Anyone could leave an apartment at any moment and see me, or someone could come up the stairs, and I'd have nowhere to hide. No one would believe Ricky was drunk or had OD'd, the way I was carrying the body, and even if that was what someone did think, it wouldn't do any good when the cops started asking questions. The person would just give the cops a description of me and eventually I'd be caught.

I considered turning back, but I talked myself out of that quickly. If I had to wait until tomorrow night the medical examiner would figure out that Ricky had been dead for more than thirty-six hours, and the cops would never believe that he'd been in the park for so long without being discovered. It was now or never, and I just had to pray that I could make it without being seen.

As I approached the third-floor landing my arms were killing me and I was breathing so hard my lungs hurt, but I didn't let myself rest. Jazz music with a strong sax sound was playing in the apartment adjacent to the bottom of the landing. Hopefully, someone had gone to sleep with the stereo on and there was no one awake in the apartment. I'd barely finished having this thought when I arrived on the landing and the music suddenly stopped. I froze a few feet in front of the door to the apartment where the music had been playing, holding Ricky's body by my side, his head jutting toward the doorknob. I heard heavy footsteps in the apartment, and if the person had heard me or opened the door for any other reason I could get ready to spend the rest of my life in jail.

The footsteps were closer now, and I imagined a surly, muscular guy with a goatee like my future cell mate was going to look opening the door at any moment. He'd scream for help, tackle me to the floor, and hold me down until the cops came. Aunt Helen and some of my other relatives would be shocked when they heard the news, telling reporters,

"He was such a nice, easy-going guy he could never have done something like that." I'd plead innocent, say the whole thing had been an accident, but everyone watching the news would think, Sure, that's what they all say. People at my office would have the same reaction, but Rebecca wouldn't give a shit. She'd just move on and start mooching off some other guy.

The two locks on the door turned and I knew this was it. The door would swing open and The footsteps started again, dissipating into the apartment. It took me several more seconds to realize that the person was locking the door, not unlocking it, and I wasn't going to get busted not yet anyway. I waited until there was total silence, and then I continued around toward the stairs leading down to the next floor.

The short rest had given me a surge of energy, and I was able to move faster than before. Fatigue set in again as I neared the second floor, but I was able to push myself to keep going. I kept telling myself that once I got outside I could find a dark area and rest for a while, and then it would be only a block and a half to the park.

When I reached the ground floor and saw the double doors leading to the outside several yards in front of me, I didn't think I could make it. I was going to pass out and collapse what a pathetic way of getting caught. Then I was opening the first door, which seemed like it weighed a thousand pounds, and I made it into the vestibule, and I opened the second door, which seemed to weigh even more. I made it outside, but I couldn't go any farther. I squatted, resting the body against an overflowing garbage can. It was okay the street was dark, empty, and quiet; the only noises I heard were distant traffic on Avenue B and, somewhere, a dog barking. I could rest for a few minutes and go on, but then I thought, Why not just leave the body here? It was going to be discovered anyway, so what difference did it make when or where it was found? Somebody could've fought with Ricky and bashed his head into the concrete right here as easily as in the park.

I thought it through a few more times, making sure I wasn't making a stupid, rash decision. When I was convinced I wasn't, I started walking up Sixth Street, as fast as I could without running. Crossing Avenue A, continuing west, I couldn't hold back any longer. I broke into a full sprint.

APPROACHING FIRST, I started walking again toward the West Side. I figured it would be a good idea to hail a cab in the West Village or Chelsea, far away from Charlotte's. Desperate voices in the dark asked me for change "Yo, you got twenty cent?" or offered me drugs "Smoke, man, smoke" but I kept going, not making eye contact with anybody. I was sick of all the zombies who just existed to make other people miserable. Everyone who thought the scum was gone from the city didn't leave their apartments at night.

Around Broadway my fatigue started to set in again, but it was nothing compared to how I'd felt lugging the body. I continued along Eighth Street, past all the closed stores, the streets emptier. On Sixth Avenue I finally hailed a cab, and I sat in the car, staring blankly straight ahead as Aziz Amir sped uptown, making almost every light. A wave of euphoria had set in I was really out of that apartment, on my way home. The situation had seemed so hopeless, especially when I'd heard those locks turning, but now I was free. My arms, shoulders, and lower back ached badly, and I knew my muscles would hurt even more tomorrow, but the pain would be worth it. I'd lie on a bed of nails for months if it meant getting through this.

In the back of the cab I felt filthy, like the whole day was sticking to me, and I couldn't wait to wash it away. It was going to be so great to take off all my clothes, stand on the soft, shaggy bath rug, then get under a hot blast of water. I'd just stand there and let the water pound on my head and run down my neck, and I'd feel my muscles relax and peace overtake me, and I'd know I was away from Charlotte and that whole nightmare.

I paid Aziz, giving him a two buck tip, and I went into my building.

Opening the door to my apartment I was thinking about the warm water, my tension releasing, the filth swirling down the drain. Then I saw Rebecca standing in front of me, wearing the same black dress she'd been wearing when I'd left, but she was obviously drunk and wasted. Her eye makeup had run, giving her dark "raccoon eyes," and she was swaying as she tried to stand still. The apartment had a faint odor of pot.

"Where the hell've you been?"

I'd almost forgotten about Rebecca and all our problems.

"Where do you think I was?" I said. "I was at work."

"Work, my ass."

I noticed the empty bottle of wine, on its side on the dining room table, next to a few empty beer bottles. She was acting like she was coked-up too.

"I'm not gonna deal with this shit again," I said.

I headed along the hallway toward the bedroom, watching over my shoulder for flying bottles, but Rebecca was following me.

"What's her name?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Come on, why can't you be a man and tell me? What's the bitch's name?"

"Leave me the hell alone."

We were in the bedroom.

"Who is she?" she asked. "How long has it been going on? Have you been cheating on me since we met? Is that why you never want to go out with me anymore, why you want to break up with me, because you started screwing some ho? Come on, tell me who the bitch is. I have a right to know the slut's name."

In the middle of taking off my sweatshirt, my face covered, I said, "I know you're dying to fight with me again, but it's…" I finished taking off my sweatshirt and glanced at my watch "shit, four-thirty, and I'm going to sleep."

I took off my jeans and plopped onto the mattress. The pillow against my head would've felt so good if Rebecca weren't still standing there, shouting.

"I should've known you've been getting some on the side. Making it out like you have all these problems with me I go out too much, I spend too much, I do this, I do that. Meanwhile, it's you you're the bad one, not me."

I ignored her, hoping she'd leave me alone.

"So who is she?"

I was starting to conk out, but I knew she wouldn't shut up if I didn't answer her.

"There's nobody," I mumbled.

"You're lying," she said.

"I'm not lie… li… lying," I said, my voice fading.

"Do you work with her? You screwing some cunt at your office?"

Her voice jarred me awake.

"No," I said crankily. "Will you just stop with this already?"

"So where were you tonight? Her place?"

"What the hell're you talking about?" I said, burying my head under the pillow. "You know where I was."

"No, I don't know."

"I was at work."

"What?"

She couldn't hear me through the pillow. I pushed the pillow up slightly, revealing my mouth, and said, "Work. Work, all right?"

"I called work. Your voice mail kept picking up."

"That's because I was working. That's what people do when they're at work they work, but I guess you wouldn't know about that."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

I didn't want to get into another senseless argument, so I didn't say anything. The room got quiet. I was hoping I'd hear footsteps and the door slamming but instead she said, "I called your cell too, but you didn't pick up. Why didn't you pick up?"

I waited, then said, "I didn't have my phone on."

"Bullshit. It was on because it rang the first time I called anyway.

You didn't answer, then you turned it off. You didn't bother checking your messages either I left, like, five of them."

"I didn't know it was you calling."

"You have caller ID."

"My battery was running out."

"Bullshit!"

I burrowed my face deeper into the mattress, the pillow still atop my head. But Rebecca wouldn't let up.

"What were you doing at work?"

"Working," I said, "what do you think? Now can you leave me the hell alone?"

"I thought you just had to give them a file or something?"

"The whole system crashed, and I didn't back it up after all. I had to rewrite it from scratch."

"Why didn't you check your messages?"

"Because I didn't," I said, angry that I'd been explaining my whereabouts to some crazy girl I didn't even want to be with.

Rebecca grabbed the pillow.

"Give it back," I said.

"Not till you tell me her name."

"You're so pissed off, what're you waiting for? Why don't you just leave me? Get out of my life!"

"I want to know her name!"

She stopped, staring at something to her left. I realized what it was right away. Before I'd taken off my jeans I'd put my wallet on the dresser.

"What's that?" she asked.

"What's what?"

"That… Your wallet."

"Oh, yeah," I said. "It was returned to me."

"By who?"

"I have no idea."

"What do you»

"Somebody dropped it at the office I don't know who."

I reached for the pillow, but Rebecca yanked it back away.

"Can you please give me my pillow back?"

"You're such a liar," she said. "Your wallet wasn't stolen you just made that up because you thought I wouldn't be able to use my credit cards. You thought if I didn't have any credit cards I'd leave you, because that's why I'm with you, right? Because you're like my sugar daddy or something."

"A woman found it on the First Avenue bus."

She swung the pillow hard against my head. The force jerked my head back, stunning me.

"Are you cheating on me?" she said.

"Yes," I said, dazed. "I'm cheating on you, all right?"

She glared at me with the pillow cocked, ready to belt me again. Then she said, "With who?"

"I don't see what difference that makes."

"I want to know her name."

"I'm not telling you her name."

I was ready to raise my arms to block the blow.

"Do you love her?" she asked.

"Yes," I said. "I love her."

She would belt me with the pillow again at any moment, or maybe she would forget the pillow go for the picture frames on the dresser. She would fling them at me one after the other and there would be more broken glass, and this time there wouldn't be anything I could do to stop her. She would keep coming after me, or maybe she'd pick up pieces of broken glass and try to cut me. I'd try to fight her off, and maybe I'd get her in a headlock. I'd just be trying to defend myself, but I'd lose control and start ramming her head against the wall.

But Rebecca wasn't coming after me. She was staring at me, looking wounded, and then she shook her head slowly and turned and left the room without saying a word, closing the door quietly behind her.

I felt like I'd finally gotten through to her. Later, or even right now, she'd start packing her things, and by the end of the day she'd be gone. I wished I'd thought of the "other woman" breakup technique sooner.

I fell asleep quickly, but it felt like I'd been out for only a few minutes when I was jarred awake by a nightmare. I was carrying Ricky's body down the stairs in Charlotte's building, but the body in the dream weighed much more than the actual body, and the stairs were at least twice as steep. I wasn't making any progress; it felt like I was trying to go down an up escalator. As I became more frustrated, I realized that Ricky was alive, squirming in my arms. He kept saying,

"You fucking my lady?" Then he was behind me chasing me, his head hanging to the side, as if it were attached to the rest of his body by a piece of string.

I waited for my heart to stop throbbing and for my breathing to return to normal, and then I glanced at the clock on the night table. It was 4:58, meaning I'd been asleep for only about twenty minutes. The light in the bedroom was still on, and the door was still closed. Rebecca was probably in the living room, sleeping on the couch, or maybe she'd gone to a friend's apartment or, better yet, a boyfriend's. Hopefully she'd move out by later today and I'd never see her again.

I turned out the light and tried to go back to sleep, but I was too wound up. I kept thinking about Ricky's body, lying there against the garbage can. Anybody who'd passed by until now had probably assumed it was just another strung-out junkie, but as the morning went on there would be more people on the streets, and eventually someone would realize that Ricky was dead and call the cops. Then the cops would go talk to Charlotte, and I had to count on her to keep her mouth shut. I didn't think she'd turn me in on purpose, but if the cops started putting pressure on her, she could blurt out my name. Or what if Charlotte's next-door neighbor told the cops he saw a guy in Charlotte's apartment? Charlotte would have to think fast and make up some story, and I knew I couldn't count on that.

I lay on my back, my mind spinning. I wished I could call Barbara, or go over to her place. She would've told me exactly what to do.

"I have a surprise for you," I said.

It was late one Saturday night. Barbara had been working long hours at her job, promoting a new IPO, and I'd been working hard too, having returned that afternoon from a business trip to San Francisco. I went to a video store on Columbus and rented the DVD of Barbara's favorite movie, Pretty Woman, and bought a container of her favorite Ben amp; Jerry's flavor, Chunky Monkey, then went to her place on Eighty-fourth Street.

"It's not a good time," she said into the intercom.

"Come on, buzz me up," I said. "I've got Chunky Monkey and Pretty Woman. It doesn't get any better than that."

"I'll call you tomorrow," she said.

I remained in the vestibule, suddenly getting a bad feeling, making up stories to myself. Maybe someone was robbing her apartment, tying her up, about to rape her.

I rang the buzzer again.

"Buzz me up, Barb."

"Go away."

"Buzz me up," I insisted.

A few seconds passed, and then the buzzer sounded. I went up to her apartment, and she talked to me with the door open a crack, with the chain on.

"Is everything okay?" I said.

"I have someone here."

"Who?"

"Just someone."

"Let me in."

Then the door closed. I heard Barbara saying, "No, don't, come on," and then the door opened all the way and Jay was standing there with that slicked back hair and that fake tan.

"Your sister said she didn't want to see you," Jay said. "Can't you get the message?"

"Stop it," Barbara said to him.

"I thought you two broke up," I said to Barbara.

"We got back together," Barbara said.

"When?" I said.

"It's none of your business," Jay said. "Why don't you just get the hell out of here?

"Don't talk to him like that»

"Shut up," Jay said to Barbara; then he said to me, "Your sister's sick of you. She doesn't want you coming by here anymore."

"I never said that," Barbara said.

"Shut up," Jay said to Barbara. Then he said to me, "Why don't you get the hell out of here before you get hurt?"

"You okay?" I asked Barbara.

"I told you to go," Jay said.

"I'm talking to my sister," I said.

Jay pushed me.

"Stop it," Barbara said.

"Your sister wants you to leave," Jay said.

"Jay!" Barbara shouted.

"You deaf?" Jay pushed me again, almost knocking me down, and then I went after him. He was taller than me and stronger, but I didn't let up. I tackled him, punching him in the face till his nose was gushing blood and there was blood all over my fists and he was squirming on the floor, trying to get up.

"Get out of here!" Barbara screamed at me. "Go!"

I turned over onto my side and punched the bed as hard as I could.

I lay awake for a long time, sweating and agitated, until grayish-blue light started filtering into the room through the blinds. Then I watched the ceiling brighten it was after six already and I was expecting the phone to ring at any moment, or the police to show up, banging on the door. I'd given up on trying to sleep, but I stayed in bed until eight o'clock anyway. I'd been planning to take the day off to get some rest, but I wasn't getting any, and I decided it might be a good idea to go into work. When the police investigated, it would be better to show that I was going about my normal, everyday life.

I left the bedroom, on my way to shower, when I decided to check the living room to see if Rebecca was there. Sure enough, she had crashed on the couch, still in the clothes she'd been wearing last night. I hoped she was planning to move out today, although I realized it didn't matter what she did if I wound up in jail.

Showering didn't relax me at all. Afterward I shaved sloppily, cutting myself in several places. Looking in the mirror, I appeared, appropriately, as if I'd been through hell. My lower lip was still swollen although not as badly as yesterday and my eyes were bloodshot with dark circles underneath.

Riding downtown on the crowded train, I felt like it could have been any morning. People's pissed-off faces were inches apart, everyone trying to avoid eye contact, and when the one-legged, homeless ex-vet with AIDS came through the car, pushing through on his crutches, rattling his cupful of change, everyone groaned and muttered curses.

But instead of getting annoyed or depressed about my commute, I enjoyed every second of it. I knew if I wound up in jail I'd spend years missing shitty mornings just like this one.

When I got to my building I had a scare when I saw two cops waiting in front. My first instinct was to turn around and run, but then I realized I'd seen the cops in the area before, and they were just on their normal beat. I walked by them and headed into the building through the revolving door, moving quickly because a guy was turning the door fast behind me. In the elevator, I imagined some guy in Alphabet City saying to his friend right now, "Hey, I think that guy over there's dead," and his friend saying, "No, he's not." But the first guy would insist, and they'd take a closer look, and the friend would say, "Holy shit, you're right," and that would get the ball rolling. The police would question Charlotte and her next-door neighbor, and it wouldn't be long before they questioned me. They could already be on their way over.