Twisted City

In the Manhattan Business office, I went right to my desk and booted up my computer. Peter Lyons had sent me a revised version of my story. I started proofreading it on the screen, but I couldn't concentrate. I kept thinking about all the ways I could be caught, even if Charlotte or her neighbor didn't tell the police about me. I could've left physical evidence on the body hair or fibers from my clothing. There was a chance I'd stepped in something in the hallway or outside the building I vaguely remembered my sneakers sticking slightly against the stairs and for all I knew I'd left a footprint somewhere. Or someone could've seen me a neighbor who'd heard a noise and looked through a peephole out to the hallway. And then there was my bruised lip and the cut on my arm. If the cops questioned me for any reason it was doubtful they'd believe my falling-in-front-of-the-bank story, and the more explaining I did the more convoluted my story would become.

A noise behind me startled me. It was only a creak in the floor, but I wheeled around in my chair as if a bomb had gone off. Angie was standing there.

"Sorry," she said, "didn't mean to scare you."

"You didn't," I said, catching my breath.

"Is everything okay?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"No reason."

She came into my cubicle and sat down in the chair, mindlessly sifting through a stack of magazines. She was wearing her red-blouse-with-a-short-black-skirt-and-shiny-black-boots outfit that I'd always thought she looked really cute in.

"So what're you doing?" she asked.

"Oh, nothing much," I said. "Just looking over Peter's idiotic edits."

"How's the damage?"

"Listen to this," I said, looking at the computer monitor. "My original sentence was "Byron took a major risk last year, expanding abroad in the face of fierce competition at home." The schmuck changed it to, "Byron took a terribly odd gamble last year, spreading its operations too thinly abroad, while competition from industry leviathans swelled in the States."

"You know what he did to my last story?" Angie said. "He said the company I was writing about had 'indefatigably gained market share."

I laughed. It felt good to have something to laugh about.

"I wish we could do something to get even with him," Angie said, "like expose him somehow. Like maybe we could start a web site Peter-Lyons-is-a-fucking-asshole-dot-com, or something like that. We could post all this trash about him and everybody in the world would know what a prick he is… What's wrong?"

Laughing with Angie had managed to distract me from my real problems for a while, but it had all set in again.

"Nothing," I said.

"God, you scared me," Angie said. "For a second I thought you couldn't breathe or something."

"I'm fine."

"You sure?"

"Maybe it's allergies pollen. I'll have to stop by the drugstore later."

Angie still seemed very concerned, and I wished I could've opened up to her about everything that was going on in my life. It would've been great to have someone to talk to.

Wanting to change the subject, I said, "So how're you and the frat boy doing?"

"Please," Angie said, blushing.

"What? You and Mike are dating, right?"

"No," she said, overly defensive. She got up and peered over the tops of the cubicles to make sure Mike wasn't around, and then she sat back down. "We went out last night to dinner at City Crab on Park. I had the shiftiest time. He kept going on and on, talking about some hockey game he went to with his friends, even though he knows I couldn't give a shit about hockey. Then he starts taking all these cell phone calls.

Just stupid calls from friends of his "Hey, man, what's goin' on?" "Not much, dude just sittin' here chillin', havin' dinner with this hot chick from my office."

I laughed.

"So finally he gets off the phone and the rest of the meal we barely talk at all. I'm just checking my watch, hoping I'm home in time to do my laundry; then the check comes and he's like,

"So do you want to go back to my place and fool around?" I look at him like, Are you out of your fucking mind? I mean, what was he expecting me to say? "Yeah, let's go fool around that sounds like a great idea.

Why don't you invite some of your hockey goons over too?" So we get outside and I just get in a cab and tell the driver to drive away as fast as he can. I don't know what I'm gonna say when he sees me today.

Hopefully he'll just blow me off."

"If you want to go on another date we'll pay for it," I said.

"No, thanks, Chuck," Angie said, and then she glanced at her watch.

"Well, I better get to work. I have to talk to this analyst, then write this story about some company I know nothing about."

"What company?"

"Cornwell and Wallace. They're a search firm specializing in accountants."

"Fun."

"I know, right? It sounds like some bad joke. What's more boring than headhunting? Headhunting for accountants."

Angie got up to leave.

"Stay," I said.

She looked at me, noticing the strange desperation in my voice. I liked the distraction of having Angie to talk to. It made me feel safe, as though as long as I was with her nothing could possibly go wrong.

"I can't," she said. "My story's due this afternoon and I haven't even started it yet. But if you want to do lunch plater, maybe around twelve-thirty…"

"Lunch sounds great," I said.

"Cool," she said, looking at me I thought flirtatiously. "See ya later."

I continued reading through the edited version of my story, but I couldn't concentrate, reading the same lines again and again. Every time I heard a noise behind me I felt a pang in my chest and I looked over my shoulder expecting to see police officers. I hoped it wouldn't be a big production six or seven officers, guns, handcuffs.

The tiny clock in the lower right hand corner of my computer monitor seemed to take up the entire screen. When ten o'clock came I knew it wouldn't be much longer. The body had to have been discovered by now.

Charlotte had told the cops my name and where I worked, and they were probably in the building, getting on the elevator right now. Maybe they considered me a dangerous felon and had cordoned off the building.

Dozens of cops no, a whole SWAT team could be on their way up to get me.

I was sweating through my shirt. I went to the bathroom to wash up, and then I used the urinal, wondering if it was the last leak I'd take as a free man.

Back at my desk, I skimmed the story on the screen, noticing more Britishisms and awkward sentences. I started to write an angry e-mail to Jeff; then I had a better idea. I forwarded my original version of the article to Jeff, without Peter's edits. It was against the magazine's protocol to bypass the associate editor, but at this point what did I have to lose?

At 10:42, the police still hadn't arrived, and I decided that something must be holding them up. Maybe Charlotte wasn't home when they went to question her and they were waiting outside her apartment. So I'd gotten a couple extra hours of freedom, but maybe it would've been better to have been put out of my misery.

Another excruciating few minutes went by, and then Jeff IM'd me, telling me he wanted to see me in his office.

"Take a seat," he said when I arrived.

Jeff had turned forty last year, but he looked at least fifty. His hair had been totally gray since I'd known him, and he had a wrinkled, prematurely aged face, probably from years of alcohol abuse. Everyone at the magazine knew to stay away from him after two in the afternoon, when he was known to be irritable after his long martini lunches. Once, during my first year at the magazine, I'd made the mistake of asking him for some advice about a story while he was lit, and he blew up at me, screaming, "Get out of my motherfucking office!"

I sat down in the chair across from his desk when he said, "Are you okay?"

"Fine," I said. "Why?"

"You look exhausted."

"Oh, I'm just trying to fight something off."

"You mean you came into work sick? What's wrong with you? I have kids at home, for Christ's sake."

"I don't think I'm actually sick," I said, wondering if he'd started drinking earlier than usual today. "I just have a scratchy throat."

"Still," Jeff said, shaking his head, and then he became distracted by his computer monitor and he swiveled in his chair to face it head on.

"So I was looking over your story on this, er… Byron Technologies …"

"I was going to write you about that," I said. "I sent you my original version because I don't think it's fair what Peter's been doing. He doesn't edit; he rewrites."

"So this writing is entirely yours?" Jeff asked.

"Yes," I said.

"Well, I think it's one of the best stories you've done since you've been here."

"Really?"

"Love it," Jeff said. "It's angry, it's biting, it takes a strong point of view you know that's what I always look for. I love this line when you say Wall Street needs to reserve a plot in the high tech graveyard for Byron, and how the company has had more fumbles than a high school football team. That's perfect."

"I'm glad you enjoyed it," I said.

"The writing's very straightforward," Jeff said. "It has none of those awkward words and overly complicated sentences that your other articles have had."

"Peter always adds that crap," I said. "I mean, if you check out some of the articles I wrote for the Journal»

"Look," Jeff said, ignoring me. "I know we've had our differences in the past, David, but the past is just that the past. What I'm trying to say is, how about we put our differences behind us and move on with a clean slate?"

"Okay," I said with no idea what he was getting at.

"Great," he said. "So how'd you like to be my new associate editor?"

I thought he was joking. He'd never even hinted about a promotion before, and besides, associate editor was Peter's position.

"You're kidding," I said.

"Why would I kid about that?"

"What about Peter?"

"We've been getting too many complaints about him lately. We were all discussing it at the management meeting this morning, and we think it's time to make a switch at the very least to boost the morale at the magazine, which, if you haven't noticed, has been pretty dismal lately.

Peter doesn't know about this yet, so this is between you and me.

Gossip gets around this office faster than the flu, and I don't want Peter to find out about it third hand. I just wanted to get a feel for whether you're up for the job before I take the next step. So? Are you?"

I heard a siren on Broadway outside Jeff's window I wondered if it was the cops coming to get me.

"Sure," I said.

"You sound noncommittal."

"No, I'm very committal," I said. "The job sounds great."

"You sure you're just feeling under the weather? Because I get the feeling you don't want this job."

"I want it," I said.

"Great, then it's yours."

Jeff reached across to shake my hand, then yanked his back before it touched mine.

"Germs," he said.

I stayed in Jeff's office for the next half an hour or so, discussing the new job and my new responsibilities. My new salary would be fifty-two a year a far cry from what I used to make at the Journal, but it was still a ten-grand-a-year raise. At another time in my life, even a couple of days ago, I would've been excited about the promotion, and would've started plotting using it as a stepping-stone toward getting a job at Forbes or Business Week Now, with my arrest looming, it was hard to really give a shit.

Surprisingly, twelve-thirty came and the police still hadn't shown.

Angie came by my cubicle, smiling she'd reapplied her lipstick and asked if I was ready for lunch.

"You betcha," I said, in a better mood than I should've been in.

We went around the corner to the deli with the good salad bar on Fiftieth Street. Eating our combinations of California rolls and oily salads, I told Angie about my promotion.

"That's unbelievable," she said.

"It's a secret," I said, "so don't tell anybody."

"My lips are sealed." She mimed locking her lips and throwing away the key. "It's so funny we were just talking about Peter."

"I know."

"It's gonna be so great not having that loser editing my stories anymore."

"You never know," I said. "I might start inserting some indefatigablys myself."

"As long you don't put in any terriblys."

We laughed and I impulsively reached over and held her hand, caressing it with my thumb. She looked at me intensely for a few seconds, then pulled her hand away.

"What about your girlfriend?"

"She's not really my girlfriend."

"But I thought you live together?" She looked confused.

"Yeah, but it's ending," I said. "Besides, it was never very serious to begin with. I know you've never met her, but she's this young club girl. I mean, you should hear the way she talks. She has this up speak you know, making everything sound like a question, and she has this weird Southern accent. It's hard to describe, but it's really funny to listen to trust me."

I was smiling, trying to get Angie on my side, the way she was always on my side when we made fun of Peter or Jeff, but she remained very serious.

"I don't get it," she said. "If you don't like her, why did you start dating her to begin with?"

I wished I'd kept my mouth shut.

"There are some good things about her, of course," I said, trying to do damage control. "I mean, she's fun to be with and I like a lot of other things about her, but we're not really compatible."

"So if you're not compatible, why are you still living together?"

"Good question." I was smiling, trying to make light of the situation.

"Like I said, we're in the process of breaking up. I mean, we're going to be broken up very soon."

"But you're still together."

"Kind of."

She was squinting, looking confused, and I didn't know why I'd opened my big mouth about any of this.

"I've been trying to get her to move out," I said, "but it's been kind of difficult."

"Difficult how?"

"Well, I've asked her to move out, but she kind of has attachment issues, I guess. She had a difficult childhood, so maybe that has something to do with it, or maybe… Anyway, she just doesn't get that it's over. I mean, the other night, when we talked about it, she started throwing vases at me."

"What do you mean she threw vases at you?"

"She was drunk," I said. "I mean, she was just out of it, that's all, and she kind of lost her temper for a second and picked up some things from the mantle and threw them. It was nothing, really… So how's your salad?"

"Did she hit you with the vases?" Angie asked.

"No, of course not," I said. "The hitting came later."

I smiled, but she didn't.

"Is that how you hurt your lip?"

"What? No."

"It sounds like you're in an abusive relationship."

"Whoa, come on," I said, "don't you think you're exaggerating just a little bit?"

"What if I told you my boyfriend was hitting me and throwing vases at me? Wouldn't you say that was abusive?"

"It's not the same thing."

"Why not?"

"Because it just isn't," I said, getting frustrated.

"Sorry, I guess it's really none of my business," Angie said as she speared a cherry tomato with her fork. "I just want you to know that, as an outsider looking in, it sounds like your girlfriend has some serious problems."

"Look, I know she has problems," I said. "Why do you think I'm breaking up with her?"

We continued eating in silence. After a few minutes I broke the ice and said, "So how's your new article going?"

Our conversation was uncomfortable for a while, but then we settled down and things seemed more normal again.

At around one o'clock we headed back toward our office building. As we turned the corner onto Broadway, reality set in as I realized that Rebecca wasn't my real problem. My real problem was lying against that garbage can in Alphabet City.

"What's wrong?" Angie asked, concerned.

"Nothing," I said. "Why?"

Back at the office I walked Angie to her cubicle. The way she said,

"See ya later," I could tell she was still upset about our conversation over lunch, and I felt frustrated too that there was suddenly so much awkwardness between us.

At my desk, I was more anxious than I had been in the morning. Time seemed to go by even slower as I waited to hear the commotion of the police arriving. But the hours crept by, and at five o'clock the police still hadn't come. I had no idea what was going on. The body had to have been discovered by now. Maybe the police hadn't had a chance to talk to Charlotte yet, or maybe she'd handled herself better than I'd expected. Maybe the plan was going to work out after all.

As I was getting ready to leave, Angie came by and asked if I wanted to walk out of the building with her. I told her to go ahead without me, that I had some last-minute stuff to take care of, and that I'd see her tomorrow. I wanted to leave with her hell, I wanted to do more than that with her but I realized that holding her hand had been a big mistake, and I didn't want to lead her on more than I already had. If I lucked out and the police never bothered investigating Ricky's death, and I finally got Rebecca to move out of my apartment, then I'd attempt to start a normal relationship with Angie. Until then, I'd try to keep some distance between us.

I walked home from work. Every time I saw a cop I crossed the street to avoid being seen, afraid that a description of me had been radioed around the city. I made it to my block, relieved that no cop cars were in front of my building.

In the hallway outside my apartment, I stopped when I heard the Police's "Hole in My Life" playing inside. I was upset that Rebecca was home, that she hadn't moved out today, but I was also confused. She never listened to my CDs and always made a big fuss whenever I played them.

I opened the door and went to the living room and saw Rebecca lounging on the couch, reading a copy of Vibe.

"Hi, honey," she said in a domesticated, 1950s way. "How was your day?"

I stood there near the door, taking in the scene. Then Rebecca looked up at me again, smiling.

"What's going on here?" I asked.

"Not much," she said. "Just chillin', listening to some Police. I decided you were right I should start listening to other types of music widen my horizons? That song "Roxanne' is dope, yo."

"Is this supposed to be funny?"

"Is what supposed to be funny?"

"Don't you remember our conversation last night?"

"Yeah, I remember it. You told me that you're in love with somebody else."

"So if you know that, what're you still doing here? Why don't you move out? Go stay with a friend."

"Because I don't believe you."

"You don't believe I met someone else?"

"No, that I believe. I just don't believe you're in love with her.

Maybe you had a fling with someone at your office, because you were mad at me, but I forgive you." She resumed flipping pages of the magazine.

"Oh, sorry I didn't cook tonight I didn't have any money. I have an idea let's go out to dinner. We can go downtown to this cool Spanish place in Soho Ray told me about, then we can swing by Key Club or Exit?

Unless you wanna listen to some rock I'm down for that too. Or maybe you just wanna go bar hopping When was the last time we got wasted?"

I was staring at her. Finally I said, "It's not a fling. I met somebody else, I love her, and I want to be with her."

I was just saying this to hammer a point home, to convince Rebecca to leave, but I wondered if I was talking about Angie.

"Pul-leeze," Rebecca said, shaking her head and smiling. "Do you really expect me to believe that?"

"Why would I make it up?"

"Because you're still mad at me and you're trying to hurt me. Just stop it already."

"You're wrong," I said. "I really did meet someone else someone I'm very serious about. Her name's Angie."

Rebecca tossed away the magazine and got up from the couch. She came over to me, wrapped her arms around my back, and moved her mouth up toward mine, her lips parting slowly.

"You look so hot tonight," she said. "How about we pop some E and go into the bedroom and get busy?"

She started kissing me. I pushed her away and said, "What the hell're you doing?"

"Come on," she said, reaching around and squeezing my ass.

As she leaned in again to kiss me, I pushed her away and said, "I'm serious. I'll give you two days to pack up and move out. I think once you're gone you'll see how good this is for both of us."

She looked at me as if she didn't recognize me, and then started to smile.

"That was really good," she said. "How long did it take you to think that one up? Seriously, I bet you were thinking about that all day.

You were thinking, "I'll tell Rebecca "Once you're gone you'll see how good this is for both of us." You thought that would really get me back."

"I'm not trying to get you»

"You probably made up that whole Angie story too."

"I'm not making up anything," I said very seriously.

I could tell she was starting to believe me.

"So how is she?" she asked.

"How is she what?"

"You know…"

She tried to grab my ass, but I moved away in time.

"… in bed," she continued. "Is she in shape? I bet she isn't. I bet she has flabby thighs and a blubbery stomach, and I bet she has zits." She made a disgusted face.

"You have two days to get out," I said. "I think that's a reasonable amount of time to find someplace to crash. Maybe you can move in with Ray."

I went into the kitchen and Rebecca remained in the living room. I opened the refrigerator and took out the Brita water pitcher.

"Two days," I said as I turned on the faucet and filled the pitcher.

"I'm giving you two days."

With the water running I couldn't hear what Rebecca was saying not that I cared. I turned off the faucet and said, "Two days," again.

Rebecca entered the kitchen. She watched me pour a glass of water and drink it, and then she said, "So you expect me to just leave? Just walk out the door and that's it?"

"It doesn't have to be like that," I said. "We could still stay in touch be friends, do lunch every once in a while."

"And what about me? What do I get out of all this?"

"What're you talking about?"

"I didn't invest all this time with you for nothing."

"I wasted time too."

"I didn't say wastedl" she screamed in a shrill voice. Great, I thought. Now Carmen or the other neighbors would complain about the noise to the landlord I'd be lucky if I could keep my lease.

"Brilliant," I said.

Rebecca picked up the glass from the counter and flung it behind her.

It smashed against the wall above the stove, shards going everywhere.

"That's it we're over!" I screamed.

"Nothing's over," she said, "until I say it's over or until one of us dies."

"Really?" I said. "And what's that supposed to mean?"

"Whatever you want it to mean." She smiled ambiguously.

"So what're you saying?" I said. "You're saying if I try to force you to leave you're going to kill me?"

"You never know," she said. "I could strangle you while you're asleep one night. Or maybe I'll get a gun." She held her index finger and thumb up to my forehead, then bent her thumb down and said, "Pow."

"You're really scaring the shit out of me," I said sarcastically, but I kind of meant it.

She was staring at me, doing her best to look like a maniac.

"You're right, I could never hurt you," she said. "Besides, what reason would I have? I know you'd never really try to leave me."

"What're you talking about? I'm telling you to leave."

"You don't tell me to do anything."

She came over to me and put her hands around my waist and rubbed up against me. I wanted to move away but I didn't, or couldn't.

"When I found you that day in the park you were like a stray dog," she said. "I rescued you and now you're mine."

"I think you need help."

She kissed my neck a few times; then she kissed my lips.

"You belong to Rebecca now," she said. "You only do what I tell you to do, but you don't have to worry you can sleep tight tonight, cutie.

Rebecca would never, ever hurt you."

She kissed me again, longer this time, then strutted out of the kitchen and headed along the hallway. Moments later I heard the bathroom door shut.

I stayed in the kitchen, wondering who was crazier Rebecca, or me for staying with her all these months.

After ruminating for a couple more minutes, I tiptoed over the broken glass, figuring I'd clean up the mess later, and went into the living room. "Can't Stand Losing You" was playing and I remembered how Barbara and I used to listen to Bowie and the Police all the time in high school and college, and how I was listening to a Bowie CD that night Barbara came over to my apartment.

"I'm sorry," she said. "You were so right. You were so right about everything."

She looked awful, like she'd been crying for hours. I hadn't spoken to her at all in over two weeks, since the night I beat Jay up. I'd tried to call her at home and at work, but she kept screening my calls and hanging up on me.

"Jay's a fucking scumbag," she said. "He was seeing his old girlfriend the whole time, right behind my back. I'm such a stupid idiot."

I held her for a long time as she cried.

I read part of some boring, poorly written story about the divas of hip-hop in Rebecca's copy of Vibe, and then, with the Police still playing, I started thinking about the police. I looked at my watch it was 6:25. I'd once read somewhere that most crimes are solved within twenty-four hours after they're committed and I hoped that every hour that passed without the police showing up made it more likely that they'd never come.

The CD ended and the apartment was suddenly silent. Having an apartment in the back of the building with no street noise was great most of the time, but when you didn't want to listen to yourself think, the quiet was unbearable. I considered playing another CD, but somehow the idea of listening to more music depressed me. I turned on the TV to some dumb reality dating show just for the comfort of noise.

Not that I really cared, but I looked down the hallway every once in a while, noticing that Rebecca was still in the bathroom. I figured that she was taking one of her annoyingly long baths. She'd done a lot of damage on my credit cards, buying exotic bath soaps and massage oils and she often hogged the bathroom, taking baths that lasted an hour or longer.

Eventually I heard Rebecca leave the bathroom and go into the bedroom, the odors of whatever shampoos or soaps she'd used seeping into the living room. It was past eight o'clock now, and there was still no sign of the police. As I expected, there was nothing about Ricky's body being found on the TV news. Even if the police were investigating, the death of a scumbag drug addict wasn't exactly newsworthy.

I heard a noise to my right and looked over and saw that Rebecca was sauntering into the living room in a black satin nightie.

"I'm sorry," she said, in a soft, vulnerable voice. "You know I'd never really hurt you, right? I just get upset because I love you so much and I don't want to lose you.

You can understand that, can't you, baby?"

"Move out in two days," I said calmly. "Please understand that it's the best thing for both of us."

"I'll be waiting for you in the bedroom," she said, as if she hadn't heard me. She popped an Ecstasy tablet into her mouth and swallowed.

Then she headed back down the hallway, swinging her hips from side to side in a slow, exaggerated way.

I shut off the TV and lay on the couch, squeezing my thighs together against my hard-on. Then I remembered having lunch with Angie how normal and right it had felt to be with her. I imagined that we'd gone out for a drink after work and then she'd invited me back to her place.

We'd sat on her couch and started making out. Things had progressed and we'd moved to the bedroom, where we'd undressed each other and started making love.

Unconsciously, I had started to masturbate. I continued, pulling down my underwear for easier access, imagining that I was lying on my back and Angie was next to me, taking off her panties. Then she climbed on top of me and I slid into her. She started bouncing up and down as my hands squeezed her heavy breasts. My hand action quickened as I saw Angie's face, and then Angie turned into Rebecca. I was getting closer and I wanted to get rid of Rebecca and see Angie again, but then Rebecca became Charlotte. I tried to think about Angie again, but Charlotte was sticking. I could see Charlotte clearly, her tiny breasts in my face. It was too late to stop, and I concentrated on Angie, seeing her again for an instant, and then there was a rapid flux. I was thinking about Angie, Charlotte, Angie, Charlotte, Rebecca, Charlotte shit Angie, Charlotte, Angie, Angie, Angie, Angie, then right as I started to ejaculate Charlotte.

Miserably, I rubbed the semen onto my leg until it had mostly absorbed.

A few minutes later, I was asleep.

THE RINGING PHONE jolted me awake. I sat up, disoriented. The lights in the kitchen and in the hallway were still on. The phone rang again as I glanced at my watch: 1:03.

I picked up the phone during the third ring, thinking, Shit, it's the fucking police. Why did I pick up?

"Hello," I said wearily.

"David, you gotta come meet me. Right now!"

Charlotte's annoying, squeaky voice made me wonder if I was having a nightmare. I didn't say anything, still trying to process what was going on.

"Hello, you there?" Charlotte said.

"I'm here." Then I thought about Rebecca. "Hold on."

I left the phone on the couch, hearing Charlotte protesting, "Hey, where're you going? Get back here!" and then her voice fading to nothing as I headed down the hallway. I opened the door to the bedroom carefully. The room was dark but I could see the shape of Rebecca's body asleep in bed. I closed the door and returned to the living room, where I could hear Charlotte's screaming voice still coming through the receiver.

She was saying, "You there?… Hello? Hello?"

"Are you crazy?" I said. "Why are you calling me?"

"We gotta talk," she said. There was background noise a car honking, Spanish-accented voices.

"Talk about what?" I said.

"Meet me at the Holiday Cocktail Lounge on St. Marks»

"Tell me»

"Just meet me at the cocktail lounge St. Marks and First»

"Are you out of your mind?" I said. "It's one in the morning."

She breathed deeply, then said, "Be there."

"Charlotte," I said, but she'd already hung up. I called her back, using the star-69 method, and a guy answered.

"Is Charlotte there?" I asked.

"What?" the guy said.

"Charlotte," I said. "She has brown hair. She's very thin."

"You got a fuckin' phone booth, man."

"I know it's a phone booth. Can you just look around and»

The guy hung up.

"Fuck," I said, and slammed the phone down.

I wanted to pull the phone out of the wall and go back to sleep, but I knew that would be a mistake. Charlotte could be trying to scam me again, or something could have gone wrong with the police. Either way, I had to find out what was going on.

I'd fallen asleep in my clothes, so I didn't have to get dressed. I put on my shoes and jacket and headed out.

On Columbus I hailed a cab downtown. The thought of seeing Charlotte's face again was making me sick. I wondered if she'd told the police about me and they'd talked her into wearing a wire. I could be walking right into a trap.

The cab sped past Lincoln Center, looped around Columbus Circle, and continued downtown.

I got out at Second and St. Marks and walked down the block to the Holiday Cocktail Lounge, a dive bar with a metal facade and a black, graffiti-covered awning. Inside, a mix of derelicts and college students trying to look like derelicts were seated at or standing around the horseshoe-shaped bar. The juke box was cranking "Tangled Up in Blue." I didn't see Charlotte anywhere in the front of the bar; then I went farther inside and saw her seated at one of the booths in the back. I looked around at the only other people nearby four guys drinking a pitcher of beer at another booth but they didn't seem to be paying attention.

I sat across from Charlotte on the red, cracked vinyl cushion. She was visibly agitated wiping her nose obsessively with the back of her hand, rocking from side to side. She was wearing her old, ripped denim jacket.

"I didn't think you were gonna show," she said.

"What happened?" I asked.

"Buy me a drink."

"What the hell happened?"

"Come on, I need something to calm down with. Just one fuckin' drink."

The guys at the other booth started laughing. I looked over at them, then turned back to Charlotte and said, "Are you gonna tell me what's going on now, or am I gonna go home and get back into bed?"

"We're in trouble," she said. "Big trouble."

"Why's that?" I wondered where the wire was. On her leg? Her arm?

She reached into the pocket of her jacket and took out three photographs and put them facedown on the table. I didn't move, getting the sense that I didn't want to see them.

"Go ahead and look," she said.

I waited several more seconds, then picked up the photos and stared at the first one. It was difficult to make out, but maybe that was because I was so shocked and wasn't focusing well. It was actually a very clear picture, considering it was taken at night, showing me leaving Charlotte's apartment building, carrying Ricky's body. It took a while to get a hold of myself, and then I looked at the next photo a head-on shot of the body and me. The third picture was of me leaning the body against the garbage can. Although the pictures were taken from a distance, maybe from across the street, the general features of my face were unmistakable.

I stared at the third picture for a while longer, trying to think of something to say that made sense. The best I could come up with was,

"What are these?"

"What do they look like, you idiot?" Charlotte said.

The guys at the other booth were getting up, putting on their jackets.

In a softer voice, almost whispering, I said unsteadily, "I mean, where did they come from? How did you… Who took them?"

"Kenny," she said. "And he said he's gonna show them to the cops if we don't pay him off."

"What?"

"He's gonna show them to the cops if we don't give him the money. You deaf or something?"

"Money?" I said, because that was all I'd really heard. "How much money?"

"Twenty thousand bucks."

I looked at the last picture again, remembering how I'd been so determined to get away that I hadn't really looked around carefully.

Kenny must have been hiding behind a car or a lamppost, or maybe he'd taken the pictures from inside a car.

"What'd you do," I said, "set this all up when you went out for your fix?"

"Fuck you," she said.

"What'd you think, I'd fall for this bullshit?"

"I had nothing to do with any of this."

"And why should I believe a word you say?"

"Because it's true," Charlotte said. "I don't know why Kenny was out there. He must've figured it out on his own."

"He figured out that I'd just happen to be dumping " I cut myself off and looked around. The guys at the other table were gone, and the nearest people were at the bar, about thirty feet away. "Wild Horses" was much louder than our voices, but I continued whispering anyway. "He figured out that I'd just happen to be out there at four in the morning? Give me a fucking break."

"Look, I'm telling you the truth I swear on my grandmother's grave."

Charlotte crossed herself. "I don't know how he figured it out, all right? Maybe he saw you and Ricky in the shower."

"And why did he decide to get his camera?"

"Kenny's crazy," she said. "He's always looking to make a buck."

"And you're not?"

She gave me a piercing, narrow-eyed stare, then said, "At least I don't go around killing people."

She was speaking at a normal level, and "Wild Horses" had ended and someone could have easily heard her. I looked around, trying to be nonchalant, but no one seemed to be eavesdropping. Some grunge song came on maybe Pearl Jam. An old drunk guy was stumbling toward the bathroom, almost tripping a couple of times, but he didn't look over.

"You'd better keep your fucking voice down," I said.

"We have to give him the money," Charlotte whispered harshly, "or we're both fucked."

I still knew Charlotte and Kenny were working together, but I decided it didn't matter. The pictures existed and I was being blackmailed it didn't really matter who was blackmailing me.

"Why do you care if he goes to the cops?" I said. "You're not in the pictures."

"That's what I told Kenny," Charlotte said. "But he said if he goes to the cops he's gonna tell them that he saw Ricky's body in my apartment.

I don't know, maybe he's just using me to get to you. How the hell do I know what he's thinking?"

I picked up the pictures again, looked at each of them for a good five seconds, then ripped them up disgustedly.

"You're wasting your time," Charlotte said. "Kenny said he's got negatives."

Looking at her face was making me sick. I leaned over the table and rested my head in my hands, kneading my scalp with my fingers. Then I looked up and said, "What happened with the cops?"

"Nothing," Charlotte said.

"What does nothing mean?" I said. "Did they talk to you or not?"

"Yeah, they talked to me," she said. "Two cops came to my door and told me Ricky was dead. I pretended I was shocked; then I went down and ID'd him. They asked me if I knew how it happened, some other bullshit, and that was it."

"Did the cops follow you here?"

"No."

"You sure?"

"I just told you, no."

I glanced toward the bar, where mostly drunk-looking guys sitting alone were nursing drinks. No one was looking at us, but that didn't mean one of them couldn't be a cop.

"So you gonna get the money or not?" Charlotte asked.

"Where am I gonna get twenty thousand dollars?" I said.

"You got a bank account."

"I'm a reporter. You know how much I make?"

"So you must got a few thousand bucks in the bank. That'll keep Kenny quiet till»

"Do you have wax in your ears?" I said. "I'm broke. My credit cards are maxed out, I have nothing in savings. You'd be better off going out on the street and trying to blackmail a homeless guy."

"I'm not blackmailing you," she said.

"Wait, I have an idea," I said with fake enthusiasm.

"Why didn't I think of this right away? What was your bottom price for sex twenty-five bucks? That means you'd only have to fuck eight hundred guys to make twenty grand. Better get started."

Charlotte managed to maintain her serious, slightly frightened expression, but I knew she was in on this. Kenny was probably at her apartment right now, waiting for her.

I looked away again. There were still about a dozen drunks at the front of the bar, but Charlotte and I had the back to ourselves. The grunge song ended and the bar was much quieter again; it was possible to make out people's voices.

"Let's say I come up with the money," I said, nearly whispering. "How do I know you'll stop?"

"I'll stop?"

"You and Kenny.".

"I don't know why you keep»

"Okay," I said, placating her. "How do I know Kenny'll stop? I could give him the twenty grand tonight and tomorrow he'll ask for another twenty."

"He won't."

"Really? And what makes you so sure?"

"Because he said he wants twenty grand that's it."

"Oh, so now I'm supposed to trust a guy who makes his living picking pockets and running blackmailing scams? You think I'm gonna give him twenty grand, shake his hand, walk away, and think it's all over?"

"You got a better idea?"

She was looking right at me, and there was a different, more sincere tone in her voice. I was starting to believe her, at least about not planning all of this with Kenny.

"There might be another problem," I said. "I saw one of your neighbors last night, while you were out with Kenny. I mean, one of your neighbors saw me."

"What neighbor?"

"Light-skinned black guy."

"Andre?"

"We didn't introduce ourselves."

"What about him?"

"He looked out of it," I said, "but he saw me in the hallway."

"Why were you in the hallway?"

"I was just… It's not important."

"Forget about Andre," Charlotte said. "He's an ex-con and a dealer he'll never talk to the cops. What about Kenny's money?"

"Tell him I need time."

"He won't give us»

"One day," I said. "Tell him we'll give him a payment tomorrow night."

"Why can't you get the money tonight?"

"Because I don't have any fucking money," I said, raising my voice.

A couple of guys at the bar looked over. I ignored them and they turned away.

"Can't you get anything tonight?" Charlotte asked.

There was a different kind of desperation in her voice, and I realized she was more concerned about getting her next fix than getting Kenny his money.

"Just get the hell out of here," I said. "I can't deal with any more of this bullshit right now."

"What about the»

"Just go."

Charlotte sat there, rubbing her nose with the back of her hand, then said, "You better get some money tomorrow at least a thousand bucks.

I'll meet you tomorrow morning at Starbucks on Astor."

"I won't have the money in the morning."

"Then I'll meet you at noon."

"I have to work tomorrow»

"Six o'clock," she said. "You better fucking be there."

Charlotte got up and wobbled toward the door. As she passed a few drunk guys at the bar, she stopped and said something to each of them, obviously trying to pick them up. Two guys ignored her, and then one old guy grabbed her arm, trying to pull her toward him. The bartender said something, and the guy, laughing now, let go. Rubbing her arm where the guy had grabbed her, Charlotte left the bar.

I remained seated, figuring I should allow some time for Charlotte to leave the block before I left.

After listening to the end of "Wish You Were Here" and a live version of "Sweet Jane," I put the scraps of the ripped-up photos into my jacket pocket and went outside. It was raining lightly. I didn't see Kenny or anyone else who looked suspicious, so I headed toward First Avenue. No cabs were coming, so I put my hood on and started walking uptown with my head down against the wind.

I CONTINUED WALKING in the rain. Somewhere around Fourteenth Street I dropped the ripped-up photo pieces into a sewer grating. At Twenty-third Street, the rain started coming down harder and my jacket was getting soaked and my face was wet, so I gave in and took a cab the rest of the way home.

At my apartment, Rebecca was still asleep in the bedroom. I changed out of my wet clothes into sweats, and then took a spare blanket and pillow out of the closet.

"You can join me anytime you want to, baby," Rebecca said seductively, sounding wide-awake.

Without answering, I went out into the living room and plopped down on the couch. Eventually, I fell asleep.

At eight a.m." out of the shower and getting dressed for work, I decided I'd have to bring Charlotte the thousand bucks. I'd been going back and forth on it since leaving the bar last night, but I realized I had no choice. Paying off a blackmailer for something I hadn't even done still seemed crazy, but the pictures were just too incriminating.

Maybe if I made it clear to Charlotte that the thousand was all I had, Kenny would leave me alone. My only problem was that I didn't have a thousand bucks, although I had an idea where I could get it.

I'd managed to get my work clothes out of the bedroom without waking Rebecca up and I made it out of the apartment without another confrontation.

It felt strange arriving for another day of work when, after I'd left yesterday, I was convinced that I would never be back.

I was hanging up my coat on the hook in my office when Peter Lyons came by. He craned his head down to glare at me, and then, in the voice of a wanna-be Shakespearean actor, he said, "E tu, Brute!"

I looked at him, confused. "Excuse me?"

"You'll get your just desserts," he said. "All back stabbers ultimately do."

Suddenly I remembered my conversation with Jeff yesterday and realized Peter must've been fired.

"I swear, Peter I had nothing to do with this."

"I'm sure you didn't," he said sarcastically. "I'm sure you haven't been campaigning for this behind my back for months. I'm sure you didn't spread nasty rumors about me throughout the office and create a general feeling of malcontent about my editing style."

Peter sounded like a parody of himself, and if I hadn't been in such a bad mood to begin with, I probably wouldn't have been able to restrain myself from laughing.

"Look, I really didn't want to see you lose your job," I said. "If you want me to talk to Jeff»

"Don't bother," Peter said. "To be quite honest, I've been contemplating jumping ship for some time. The quality of this magazine has been deteriorating rapidly over the past few years, and with you as associate editor I am quite certain that the pattern is not likely to correct itself."

Peter stormed away melodramatically. I felt bad that he'd been fired on account of me, and then it sank in that I was the new associate editor. It wasn't exactly like getting an editor's position at the Journal, but Manhattan Business had a lot of subscribers in the New York area, and the job title would certainly help my resume stand out.

If I weren't being blackmailed for murder I might've been excited about it.

I sat at my desk and called my aunt Helen at her work number. Helen had had the same job for years, as an office manager for an outerwear distributor in the Garment District. When I was a kid it was great, because I always got a new parka or down jacket every winter. Over the years, she continued to offer me free coats, but they were all so dorky-looking I always had to think of inventive ways to decline. I spoke with my aunt on the phone every once in a while, but I hadn't seen in her in over a year. She still lived alone, in the house I'd been raised in, in Dix Hills, Long Island. Her husband, my uncle Howard, had died of a heart attack a few years after my parents were killed, and Helen had never remarried.

Helen's voice mail answered. I left a message for her to call me back as soon as she could, and then I booted up my computer. A memo had been added to my calendar about a two o'clock staff meeting that Jeff was conducting in the conference room. I wondered if the meeting was to announce my promotion.

My phone rang and I answered it. It was Helen.

"Thanks for calling me back so soon," I said.

"No problem, David. I was just on the other line it was so good to hear your voice. How are you?"

"Okay," I said.

She must have detected my uncertainty. "Is something wrong?"

"No, everything's fine totally fine," I said. "I just need to see you.

Can we meet for lunch today?"

"You sure everything's okay?"

"Yes, everything's fine. Can you do lunch?"

"Of course."

"How's noon?"

"Noon's okay," she said, sounding concerned.

"Great, I'll come by your office," I said, and hung up.

I called my voice mail and listened to an angry message from Robert Lipton, the CEO of Byron Technologies. He said that a fact-checker had faxed him a copy of the story I'd written, and that if the magazine published "this bullshit" he would take legal action. He was still screaming at me when I deleted the message.

I went down the corridor to where Theresa, Jeff's assistant, sat and said, "Who fact-checked my Byron Technologies story?"

"Sujen," Theresa said. "Why? Is there some problem?"

Sujen was the new intern, a young Korean-American student from Columbia University.

"She faxed the CEO the entire story," I said.

"She wasn't supposed to do that," Theresa said.

"Really?" I said sarcastically.

I went to Sujen's cubicle, ready to give her hell, but when I got there and saw this pretty, innocent girl sitting in front of her computer monitor I lost my edge. She'd been working at the magazine for only a few weeks, so it was understandable that she'd had a slipup. We'd had one conversation, in the elevator one morning. She'd told me she was a journalism major and hoped to write for the Times someday.

"Hi, Sujen," I said.

"Oh, hi, David."

I was surprised she remembered my name.

"Did you fax Robert Lipton my article?"

I could tell she was nervous.

"Yes," she said, "but only because he said I should."

"Weren't you told not to do that?"

"Yes," she said, "but he said he spoke with you and»

"In the future could you try not to do that?" I said. "I mean, it's no big deal, but in the future just check the quotes, okay?"

"I'm so sorry, David. He swore to me he spoke to you and you okayed it. You weren't around, so I just faxed it to him. I'm really sorry."

"It's okay," I said. "Just don't do it again, please."

I headed back toward my cubicle, feeling like a wimp. Sujen was a bright girl and she should've known better than to fax that article.

Anyone else would've given her hell for it.

Sitting at my desk, I was checking my e-mail messages when Angie entered.

"Did you hear?" she said in a gossipy tone. Then she whispered,

"Peter was fired."

"I heard," I said. I didn't feel like having this conversation.

"So it's official you're the new associate editor."

"I guess so."

"That's so unbelievable."

"I know."

"How come you're not more excited?"

"I am."

"This is so great. I'll have a normal person editing my stories now not some pseudo-British freak. Do you want to go to lunch to celebrate?"

"I can't" I said. "I'm meeting my aunt."

Angie looked at me as if she thought I might be lying, and then she said, "That's cool I guess we'll do lunch some other time. Maybe Monday."

"Sounds like a plan."

Angie started to leave; then she turned back and said, "I just wanted to say sorry for yesterday."

"Sorry for what?" I said.

"I shouldn't've butted in."

"Come on," I said, "you didn't»

"No, it was wrong," she said. "I just got a little concerned, that's all, but I should've kept my mouth shut. I just hope you're not mad at me."

"Why would I be mad?"

"I felt bad about it all night."

"Stop it," I said.

Angie smiled, looking especially cute, then said, "Stop by later and say hi?"

"I will," I said, and then I watched her leave.

I was glad that things seemed smoothed over between Angie and me, but now I was even more frustrated that I couldn't ask her out.

To distract myself, I made some calls about the story I was doing on Prime Net Solutions, a Silicon Alley DSL company. The company had recently downsized its operations and had a questionable financial position, but their subscriptions were soaring, thanks to outstanding customer service and competitive price points along its entire product line. Deciding that the article would definitely have a positive spin, I conducted a phone interview with the company's CFO and scheduled calls with several analysts who I knew were familiar with the DSL industry.

At twenty to twelve, I left the office and took the subway downtown to Thirty-fourth, then walked back up a few blocks to the Garment District. My aunt Helen worked in one of the bleak, prewar, industrial-looking buildings on Thirty-seventh Street between Seventh and Eighth Avenue. I took the rickety elevator up to the sixth floor and rang the doorbell to her office.

A young gay guy greeted me, and then Helen came over and hugged me. She was sixty-three, but except for some deepened wrinkles she looked the same to me as she always had. Her short, curly hair had been dyed the same shade of maroon for years, and she was still about twenty pounds overweight. She always seemed to be cheerful and optimistic no matter what was going on in her life. I wished I had some of that quality.

"It's so good to see you, David," she said.

Her raspy, Joan Rivers-like voice reminded me of the way Barbara could impersonate her so perfectly.

"What's so funny?" Helen asked.

"Nothing," I said. "It's good to see you too."

Helen introduced me to several people in her office, and then she reached into a big box of ugly brown winter jackets and asked me if I needed a medium or a large.

"It's all right," I said. "I just bought a new jacket last winter."

"So?" she said. "You'll need a new one next winter. Just take one."

"It's okay," I said. "My closet's so crowded I really have to start throwing things out."

"I'm gonna get you to take a free jacket one of these years," she said, smiling.

We rode back down in the elevator and left the building.

"What do you want for lunch?" she asked. "Chinese, Italian, Japanese it's on me."

"No, I'm taking you out."

"Don't be ridiculous," she said. "I haven't seen you in ages. This is my treat."

I suggested that we go to wherever was closest, so we went to a Chinese place near Eighth Avenue. As we were looking at our menus we caught up on each other's lives. She was considering selling her house and moving into a condo closer to the city, and she and a few friends had recently had a great time on a Carnival cruise to Nova Scotia. She asked me about Rebecca she'd never met her, but they'd spoken on the phone a couple of times and I told her that Rebecca was fine and everything was great. Then I told her that I needed a favor.

"Anything for you, David."

"Something's come up and I need to borrow some money," I said. "It's not much, and I promise I'll pay you back."

"Of course," she said tentatively. "How much do you need?"

"A thousand dollars."

She hesitated then said, "Okay, I can lend you a thousand dollars."

"Thank you," I said. "I'll give you the money back in a few weeks. I promise."

"How's your job going?"

"My job's fine. I'm getting a promotion, actually."

"That's great. Congratulations."

She was looking at me, confused, waiting for me to tell her why I needed the money.

"I just got into a little situation," I said. "I got in over my head with something, but it's going to be fine."

"Is it drugs?"

I laughed. "No, of course not."

"Because I remember in high school you had that pot problem»

"I didn't have a pot problem," I said. "I smoked less pot than half the kids in my class, but, to answer your question, no, the money isn't for drugs I swear to God."

"I trust you, David, but if you're in some kind of trouble»

"It's nothing like that," I said. "It's just for something… personal."

"Is Rebecca pregnant?"

"No, of course not»

"Because if she is, I'd understand»

"She isn't pregnant," I said. "Someday I'll tell you all about what's going on I promise. I just can't tell you about it now. I hope you can understand that."

Of course, I had no intention of ever telling her anything about what was going on, but I couldn't think of any better way to stop her probing.

"Fine," she said, "we can go to a cash machine after lunch."

"A thousand may be over the ATM's limit. Can we withdraw the money instead?"

Sensing the desperation in my voice, Helen gave me a long stare.

"Yes, we can do that if you want," she said.

The waiter came over and took our orders. I welcomed the distraction, and when he left I changed the subject, asking Helen if she was planning to retire.

"Me, retire?" she said. "What would I do without work?"

"You could move to Florida with your sister, I guess."

"And play bingo until I drop dead? No, thank you. I love my job and I'm gonna stay till they get sick of seeing my face. So what's with this promotion?"

"I'm the associate editor now."

"That's wonderful," she said. "I read your articles all the time, and I tell all my friends to read them too. I liked the one you did about how the price of office space is starting to go up downtown."

"Yeah, that was an exciting one."

"I enjoyed it," she said. "It was a very interesting article, and very well-written too. You shouldn't put yourself down that way."

I couldn't think of anything to say, so I dipped a couple of fried noodles into duck sauce and chewed. Our won ton soups arrived and I started eating mine quickly, bringing the bowl up to my face the way the Chinese do.

"Don't take this the wrong way," Helen said, "but have you gone to see someone?"

"What do you mean?" I asked without looking up.

"I remember how devastated you were at Barbara's funeral and how depressed you were afterward. I was very worried about you."

"I got through it," I said, trying not to get upset.

"Are you sure?" she said. "I know after Howard died my depression lasted for years. I wasn't aware of it at the time either I probably did a good job of hiding it from you kids. You and Barbara were so close, it's natural that it would be harder than you think to get over her passing."

"We weren't that close."

"Come on, you two were practically inseparable," Helen said. "I remember the way Barbara used to light up whenever you came into the room. It was like there was a spark between you. And you used to spend so much time together."

"I'm over it really," I said, and I started eating my soup even faster.

"My friend Alice's son Benjamin is a grief counselor," Helen said.

"He's a nice guy too. I met him a few times your age, from West Orange. There was a write-up about him in New York magazine last year.

Call him maybe your insurance'll cover it."

"I'm not calling anybody," I snapped.

I hadn't raised my voice to Helen in years, maybe since I was a teenager, and she was visibly taken aback.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"No, I'm sorry," she said, starting to eat her soup. "I shouldn't've pried."

Our dishes arrived. We ate for a while without speaking, and then Helen said, "Good, huh?" and I said, "Yeah." We had some more awkward conversation about minutiae. I was suddenly full and couldn't finish my chow fun. Helen left over most of her chicken with cashews.

When the waiter asked us if we wanted any dessert I said to Helen, "I think we should get to the bank now."

We went to the Citibank on Thirty-fourth and Seventh. I waited near the front while she went up to one of the tellers and withdrew the money. Then she came over to me and handed me ten crisp hundreds.

"I really appreciate this," I said. "And I'll pay you back in two weeks, tops."

"You pay me back whenever you can, dear."

We went outside. The sun had been out, but now it was cloudy. We hugged good-bye; she squeezed a lot harder than I did.

"Take care of yourself, David."

I smiled, as if she were being frivolous. Then I realized she meant it.

"I will."

At a few minutes past two, I arrived back at my office. No one seemed to be around even the secretaries' desks were unattended then I noticed people crowded inside the conference room and I remembered Jeff's meeting.

When I entered the conference room everyone seemed to say at once, "Ah, here he is." Someone made a crack about having to send out a search party, and then there was so much talking and laughing I couldn't make out what anyone was saying.

Jeff was at the head of the conference table. Raising his voice above the din he said, "We were getting worried about you."

"Sorry," I said.

"Come up here," Jeff said. "Let's get this started."

I went and stood next to Jeff, feeling suddenly hot, the way I always did when I was the center of attention. I noticed Angie, standing in the back next to Roger Gibson, another reporter, and Debbie D'Mato, who worked in Sales. Angie was smiling, giving me the thumbs-up sign.

"I'm sure most of you have already heard the news by now," Jeff said,

"but this morning Peter was let go."

A few people yelled out, "Yeah!" and "Hurrah!" and then everybody laughed, the way people at office meetings always laugh a little too boisterously at things that aren't really funny.

"I know Peter wasn't the most popular member of our staff," Jeff continued, "but we have a great man to replace him. I'm proud to announce that David Miller will be Manhattan Business's new associate editor."

People cheered and shouted their congratulations. I smiled modestly.

"David, of course, has an impressive background," Jeff said. "He worked for years at Barron's."

"The Wall Street Journal," I said.

There was more overly enthusiastic laughter.

"Right, the Journal, the Journal, right," Jeff said, obviously not giving a shit. "Anyway, he's been with us for just three months now and»

"Nine months," I said.

More fake laughter.

"Sorry, nine months, nine months," Jeff said. "Nine short months and he's already the associate editor. The way this guy's going I better look out or soon he'll have my job."

Everyone laughed again, harder than before, as if my running the magazine someday were absurd. Kevin from Payroll, a big, burly guy with a booming voice, shouted, "Yeah, better watch out, Jeff!" and James, who worked with Kevin, yelled, "Go get 'em, Dave!"

Jeff said, "But seriously. David certainly deserves this opportunity and I expect him to do an outstanding job. Congratulations, David."

Jeff and I shook hands.

"Thank you," I said, trying to sound upbeat. "I'm really excited about this opportunity, and I look forward to working with all of you."

Everyone applauded as I backed away, smiling. Jeff had ordered a few boxes of Krispy Kremes, and people hung around the conference room for a while, eating and talking. Just about everyone came over to congratulate me personally. Angie was one of the last to come by, and she said, "Better watch it with those adverbs, buddy," then slapped me on the back of the shoulder, the way a guy would.

When the meeting broke up Jeff took me aside and told me that I could start moving my stuff into Peter's old office immediately. I spent most of the rest of the day moving my things over. Like my old office, the new one was really a cubicle, constructed with portable carpeted walls. But the new office was at least twice as big as the old one, and it had a door, and there was an L-shaped desk and much more shelf and file space.

By four o'clock I'd almost completely moved into my new office.

Charlie, the office manager, said he would move my computer and have it installed onto the network by tomorrow morning.

I was in my old office, filling a last box with disks, pens, and other crap from my desk, when the phone rang. I had a feeling it was Charlotte, or maybe even Kenny, and I hesitated, preparing myself, before I answered, "David Miller."

"David, Robert Lipton," the man said.

Fuck.

"You didn't return my call," Lipton said.

"I'm on the other line," I said, knowing this excuse sounded lame.

"You're not printing that article."

"I'm really sorry," I said, "but it's out of my control»

"I swear, I'll sue your ass off if you run that article."

"I have to go," I said. "My other line's»

"That article's full of lies it's libel. Our company's in the midst of a major recovery, and you made it seem like we're going bankrupt, for Chrissake. Our gross revenue quadrupled last quarter compared to the same quarter last year, our balance sheet's improving»

"I'm sorry if you're disappointed with the article," I said.

"You also misquoted me in several places, and you misquoted that analyst, Kevin DuBois. I faxed him what you wrote, and he's considering legal action too if you print this shit."

"I really have to go now."

"You better not print this garbage. I'm warning you, if you print this"

I hung up and turned on my voice mail.

I continued setting up my new office, and then I checked my watch and saw that it was already ten to five. I put on my coat, making sure the ten hundred-dollar bills Aunt Helen had given me were secure in my wallet, and then headed between the cubicles toward the office's exit.

Although I didn't have to meet Charlotte until six o'clock and it would take me only a half hour to get downtown, I wanted to avoid the rush hour crowds.

I was about ten yards from the door when Jeff appeared from one of the aisles in front of me and said, "Ah, there you are."

I thought he was going to make a comment about my leaving early my first day on the job, but he said, "That CEO you wrote about called me before. He was screaming mad, talking about a libel suit."

Jeff's eyes were bloodshot, and I knew he'd probably had at least a few drinks.

"I know, he called me, too," I said.

"I told him I stick by my reporters," Jeff said. "I know you wouldn't write a story that was inaccurate."

"I only wrote it because you»

"You don't need to defend yourself," Jeff said. "He's probably just desperate. It reminds me of how it was when all those Silicon Alley companies went under. He knows his company's sinking and he's clinging to a life jacket."

"That's probably true," I said, "but»

"Don't sweat it, big guy," Jeff said, slapping me on the back. "By the way, I just fired that Chinese girl, what's her name?"

"You fired Sujen?"

"That's it. She didn't cry when I told her to get the fuck out of my office I'll give her that much."

"You didn't have to fire her."

"Why not?" Jeff said. "Theresa told me the whole story, how she faxed your article to that CEO. That girl's just an idiot."

"She's a journalism major at Columbia."

"She's a fucking intern. I'll make a phone call right now and there'll be ten more Japanese girls begging for that job."

I was going to tell him that Sujen was Korean, but I didn't see the point.

"I've got an idea," Jeff said, resting a hand on my shoulder. "I'll take you out to lunch on Monday. We'll have a drink or two to celebrate and we'll talk about your new job."

"Sounds like a plan," I said.

I left the office, thinking about Monday. I hoped I wouldn't be spending it in jail.

I made it to the Forty-ninth Street subway station by a little after five. A train came right away, and at 5:22 I was heading along Astor Place toward Starbucks. I bought a tall decaf and sat on a stool by the window, waiting for Charlotte to arrive.

All day I'd been rehearsing in my head what I was going to say and I prepared one last time. After I gave her the thousand dollars I'd look her right in the eyes and say, Look. Kenny can try to threaten me and blackmail me all he wants, but it won't do him any good, because this thousand's the only money I have. I was fired from my job today and I'm broke. If he wants to go to the cops right now he can be my guest, because he's not getting another penny from me. I figured if I spoke forcefully enough, she'd get the point, and I doubted Kenny or Charlotte was swift enough to check out whether or not I'd been fired.

Then, hopefully, they'd forget about me and go on to scamming somebody else.

I finished the coffee in several minutes, without realizing I'd taken more than a couple of sips. I bought a refill, then returned to my stool and stared outside. It was a mild evening and the sidewalks were crowded with college kids and people returning from work. A butch, militant-looking woman stood by the subway entrance shouting about the evils of pornography, trying to get people to sign a petition, but everyone passed by, ignoring her. On the island between Lafayette and Astor, near the giant cube sculpture, kids in baggy pants with cigarettes dangling from their mouths did tricks on skateboards, jumping off the curb, sometimes into traffic, coming dangerously close to killing themselves.

For the next half hour or so, I watched the activity outside and the nearly constant flow of pedestrians, waiting for Charlotte to appear.

By six-fifteen, there was still no sign of her. Uncomfortable sitting, I went outside and paced from the entrance to the subway to the corner of Astor and Lafayette. At six-thirty, I started getting the feeling that something wasn't right. I wasn't sure why I expected promptness from a slimy heroin addict, but I didn't understand why Charlotte would be late for a meeting where collecting money was involved.

I waited another five or so minutes, then remembered that there was another Starbucks a block away, on the corner of Third near St. Marks.

She'd told me to meet her at the Starbucks on Astor, but maybe she'd gotten confused.

I went to the other Starbucks, but Charlotte wasn't there either. I stood on the corner for a while, and then, during a lull in the traffic, I heard my phone ringing. I took the phone out of my pants pocket and flipped it open.

"Hello?"

"Where are you?" Rebecca asked.

Damn it, why didn't I check the caller ID?

"On my way home," I said.

"It's almost six-thirty."

"I know."

I thought I saw Charlotte, waiting to cross Third, but then the woman turned toward me and I saw that she was young and very good-looking.

"So when're you coming home?" Rebecca asked.

"What difference does it make?"

"Why are you yelling at me?" Rebecca said, acting hurt. I remembered how she'd threatened to kill me last night and how I definitely didn't have to explain my whereabouts to her.

"I hope you started packing," I said, and clicked off.

I waited awhile longer, then went back to the other Starbucks, to see if Charlotte was there. She wasn't. I stayed until past seven o'clock, then gave up. I bought a slice of pizza on Eighth Street and ate it walking toward the subway on Christopher.

Trying to ignore the schizophrenic sitting across from me who was engaged in a conversation with his imaginary friend, "Wally," and the woman next to me whose pocketbook kept jabbing into my ribs, I hoped that Charlotte's standing me up was a good sign. Maybe she wasn't involved in Kenny's blackmailing scheme after all, and she'd talked him into leaving me alone. I couldn't think of any other reason why she didn't show.

Now if I could only get rid of one more person.

Because of a track fire at Seventy-second Street, the train went out of service at Columbus Circle, and I decided to walk home rather than wait for a bus. As I opened the door to my apartment, I braced myself for another attack from Rebecca. Sure enough, it came.

"Why'd you fucking hang up on me?"

She was standing in the foyer, several feet in front of me, looking like hell. Her hair was a mess, hanging over her face, and she looked exhausted. The glassy look in her eyes told me that she was drunk, on something, or both.

"I hope you found someplace to live," I said.

I tried to go around her, but she wouldn't budge out of my path.

"You can't treat me this way," she said.

"Excuse me," I said as she continued to block me.

"Where were you?" Her breath smelled like alcohol. I glanced beyond her, at the kitchen counter, and saw the open bottle of whiskey that had been in the closet above the refrigerator.

"That's none of your business," I said.

"Were you cheating on me with Angie?" She smiled ambiguously, as if maybe she didn't believe that Angie existed.

"Maybe I was."

"You're full of fucking shit," she said, giving my face a nice shower of saliva.

I tried to get by her again; this time she grabbed my arms, above the elbows.

"If you don't let go of me I'll»

"You'll what?"

I backed away, freeing myself, then said, "I want you out of here tonight."

"I'm not going anywhere," she said.

"Yes, you are," I said.

She tried to kick me, but I reacted quickly, avoiding her skinny leg. I pushed past her and headed toward the bedroom, figuring I'd lock myself in for a while, when I felt the blow on the back of my head. I stopped and covered my head instinctively, not sure what had happened. I straightened up and turned around just in time to receive a hard punch to my chin. My head jerked back and my body followed. I landed on my back, and, before I could react, Rebecca was crouching on top of me, looking rabid, slapping me in the face. If she were in a zoo they would've shot her with a sedative dart.

Rebecca's face had turned dark pink and she was shrieking at me; her voice was so loud and shrill I couldn't understand a word she was saying. She continued to slap me in the face I blocked a few of the blows, but some connected and then she leaned forward and started to bite me, just below my left cheekbone. I grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her off me. But she wasn't through. Still shrieking, she started slapping me harder in the face, and I knew I had to do something. I couldn't just lie there and let a hundred-pound woman beat the living shit out of me.

Like a wrestler escaping the three-count, I raised my legs off the floor, brought them down, then raised them again swiftly. The action was enough to catapult Rebecca and her slight frame off my chest, and my hands did the rest. Grabbing her hips, I continued her momentum and she flipped over my head. I heard her bang against the hallway wall, but I didn't wait to see if she was okay. I rolled onto my side and got onto my knees, then turned to face her head-on. Sure enough, she was coming after me again, her hands spread open like claws, closing in on my face. This time I was ready, lowering my head and grabbing her by the waist. It wasn't hard to force her onto the floor and pin her down. She was still shrieking, spitting at me, acting like a mental patient, and I just wanted the noise to end. My hands moved off her shoulders to around her neck and I started squeezing. The sudden silence was a big relief, and I was barely aware of the shade of blue her face was turning. If I just squeezed a little harder… I let go just in time. Rebecca was coughing, trying to catch her breath, and I backed away, trying not to believe that I'd almost strangled her.

I became aware of someone banging on the front door. Then I heard Carmen, the old Italian woman from next door, saying, "Will you stop with all the noise in there? You two are fighting and screaming all the time, I can't even hear my television. Hello? Hello?" She continued to bang on the door.

Rebecca was still coughing, rubbing her neck where my hands had been. I looked down at my hands, which were still curled into the shape of her throat.

"I know you're in there," Carmen said. "Open this door right this instant!"

"Shut the hell up!" I screamed, and then I stood up and marched into the bedroom. I went into one of the closets Rebecca had taken over, grabbed a big armful of her clothes, and stormed back through the hallway. Rebecca, still kneeling on the floor, saw me pass, but didn't say anything.

I opened the front door and saw Carmen standing there. She was a squat, hunched-over old biddy with a big bun of black hair.

"I hope that wasn't me you were speaking to that way," she said.

"There's so much screaming coming from your apartment every day I can't hear what the people on TV are saying."

"I'm sorry, all right?" I said.

"This better stop right now or I'm gonna call the police," she said.

I sidestepped around her and went toward the vestibule and then outside. From the top of the stoop, I tossed Rebecca's clothes toward the sidewalk. Carmen was gone from in front of my apartment, but Rebecca was still in the hallway, trying to grab my leg as I went back toward the bedroom.

"I'm so sorry, David," she said. "Please forgive me. You have to forgive me."

Ignoring her, I grabbed more of her clothes from the bedroom closet, then went by her again.

"Don't do this to me, David," Rebecca said. "I'm warning you."

I dumped the clothes onto the sidewalk, then returned to the apartment.

This time Rebecca clung to my legs as I attempted to pass.

"Please don't leave me," she said desperately. "I can't lose you again I can't go through that again."

She was making no sense. I decided I just needed to get away from her as soon as possible.

I wriggled free, then said, "If you're not out of here by the time I get back, I'm tossing the rest of your shit onto the street."

I grabbed a jacket and left the apartment. The annoying homeless guy who always panhandled to the curbside diners on Amsterdam and Columbus by singing "What a Wonderful World" had started collecting Rebecca's dresses. I walked right by him and headed down the block.

I didn't have a destination, but when I approached Dublin House, a bar on Seventy-ninth and Broadway, I decided to go in. It was a dark, dank, narrow bar that Barbara and I had gone to a few times. I sat on a stool near the front and ordered a Bud. The bottle arrived, and when I put my hand around it I remembered how I'd had my hands around Rebecca's neck. With a gulp of beer I tried to wipe that image from my mind, and then I saw myself holding Ricky in a headlock, ramming his head against the steel door. I told myself that none of it was my fault, that in both situations I'd acted in self-defense, but I wasn't sure I believed it.

I took another swig of beer, then looked down the bar and saw Barbara.

She was with a guy, laughing at something he was saying. I looked closer and realized the woman looked nothing like Barbara. She had the same wavy brown hair, but her nose had a bump on it that Barbara's didn't, and Barbara had been much better-looking.

The woman was looking at me, and I shifted my attention straight ahead, not wanting her to think I'd been staring. I took another sip of beer, then took out my wallet and slid out the picture of Barbara. I stared at the picture, drinking my beer, remembering when it was taken on the night of her junior prom. She blew off all the parties and her friends to stay at home with me, and we spent the whole night just hanging out, listening to music and laughing.

"Why do you still have that?" she asked. We were at her apartment on Eighty-fourth Street, watching some TV movie, when I took out the picture and showed it to her.

"I don't know," I said.

"Rip it up."

"No way," I said, keeping it away as she reached for it.

Thinking about Barbara made my eyes start to tear. I put the beer bottle down with too much force and it slid out of my hand and smashed behind the bar. The bartender came over and offered me another.

"It's okay," I said, suddenly feeling very hot. "It was almost empty anyway."

I left a dollar tip and exited the bar quickly. As I wandered onto Broadway I decided that it was stupid to leave Rebecca in the apartment alone. She was probably so pissed off at me for dumping her clothes on the street that she'd started tossing out my stuff in revenge. I jogged toward Eighty-first Street, and then, as I imagined all of my personal things on the street, being rummaged through by that homeless guy, I started to run.

Approaching my building I was relieved to see that the homeless guy wasn't there and that Rebecca hadn't tossed out any of my things; only a few of her tops and dresses were strewn on the sidewalk.

I entered my apartment, expecting to encounter Rebecca either crying hysterically, begging for my forgiveness, or attacking me again, but none of this happened. The apartment looked pretty much the same as when I'd left. I glanced down the hallway, seeing that the bathroom door was shut, and then I went into the kitchen. Scavenging in the fridge and freezer, I found a couple of pieces of hardened, week-or-so old pita bread and a half a box of frozen soy chicken wings. I cooked the wings and warmed the pita on the George Foreman Grill, and about five minutes later I was eating a very shitty dinner.

I cleaned up the kitchen, then went down the hallway, passing the still-closed bathroom door, and went into the bedroom. I changed into sweats, deciding that if Rebecca started acting psycho again, I'd just ignore her until she settled down. I definitely wasn't going to let her drag me into another fight.

Rebecca was still in the bathroom when I headed back along the hallway into the living room. With nothing else to do, I logged on to the Internet. I checked my e-mail just a spam message from a porn site featuring horny coed sluts and my 401 (k) account, which seemed to lose value no matter how I allocated my money. Then I surfed the Web for a while, reading news stories on Yahoo! I had to pee badly, and I got up and saw that Rebecca was still in the bathroom. I decided that she was staying in there on purpose, to punish me for dumping her clothes on the street.

I knocked on the door. She didn't answer, so I knocked again, three times. She still didn't answer.

"Come on, come out," I said. "I have to use the bathroom."

Nothing. Listening closely, I heard water running; it sounded like it was coming from the faucet in the bathtub. I pictured Rebecca relaxing, a Zen-like smile on her face, enjoying my discomfort.

"I'm serious," I said. "Open up."

There was still no sound except for the steadily running water. Getting really pissed off, I was about to say something else when I noticed some water leaking out under the bathroom door. I was confused for a few seconds; then the panic set in. I don't know exactly what I did next, but I remember screaming and banging on the door, then ramming against it with my shoulder. I'm not sure how long it took for the door to open, but I'll never forget the sight of Rebecca's naked body bobbing in the overflowing bathwater.

I DIALED 911 and explained to the operator that there had been a suicide. The operator took my address, and then she asked me how the victim had killed herself. I said I had no idea but that her body was still in the bathtub.

Since I'd discovered the body I'd been surprisingly calm, and I remained calm as I sat on the armchair in the living room, waiting for the police and EMS workers to arrive. Of course, I was upset that Rebecca was dead, but I was in shock and didn't have any real emotion about it yet.

A few minutes after I made the 911 call, the buzzer rang. Without bothering to find out who it was I pressed the door button on the intercom. Leaning out into the hallway, I saw two cops a squat white guy with a walrus mustache and a tall, younger black guy approaching my apartment. I had a moment of panic, remembering leaving Ricky's body against the garbage can. I told myself that this had nothing to do with Ricky, but I still didn't feel comfortable having cops in my apartment.

"She's dead," I said, and I stood to the side and let the cops pass.

"Where is she?" the walrus cop asked.

"Bathroom," I said. "First door on the left."

As the cops approached the bathroom I realized I hadn't shut the water off in the tub. I noticed that more water had flowed into the hallway.

The walrus cop glanced into the bathroom, then started talking into his radio, describing the scene in an official, monotone voice. The other cop, wearing rubber gloves, went into the bathroom, and, a few seconds later, I heard the water shut off.

The buzzer rang again and I let the two EMS workers into the apartment.

They were carrying a stretcher. I returned to the living room and sat in the chair, waiting, as the men did whatever they were doing in the bathroom.

After a couple of minutes, the walrus cop came into the living room.

His name tag read Robert Fitch.

"Excuse me," he said, "Mr…?"

"Miller. David Miller."

Fitch took out a small pad and wrote down my name. I just wanted him out of my apartment as fast as possible.

"We're very sorry about your loss," he said, trying his best to sound sympathetic.

"Thank you," I said.

"Do you have a mop?" he asked.

"Yes," I said.

I went into the tall kitchen cabinet and gave him the mop. He took it into the bathroom then returned to talk to me in the kitchen.

"So was she your wife?" he asked, getting ready to write in his pad again.

"No," I said.

He looked up, waiting for me to elaborate.

"She was my girlfriend, I guess," I said.

"You guess?"

"She was my girlfriend," I said, more definitively.

"What was her name?"

"Rebecca. Rebecca Daniels."

He wrote this down.

"Did she live here?" he asked.

"Yes," I said.

"Does she have family?"

Rebecca had told me that she hadn't talked to her mother, or any other close family members, in years.

"Her mother lives in Texas," I said.

"Will you contact her?"

"Yes."

He jotted something in the pad. "When did you discover the body?"

"Right before I called nine-one-one. I saw the water coming out under the bathroom door, so I knew something was wrong. I broke down the door and saw her there. Then I went and called for help."

"Did you touch the body or anything else in the room?" he asked.

"No," I said, wondering why he was asking me this. Did he consider this a possible criminal investigation? "I mean, I don't think I… No definitely no."

The buzzer rang and I went to answer it. When I opened the front door Carmen was standing there with the young bearded guy who'd recently moved into the apartment across the hall.

"What's going on?" Carmen said, trying to see into the apartment.

"Nothing," I said. I didn't want Carmen to tell the police about how Rebecca and I had been fighting earlier, but I didn't see any way to avoid it.

"What do you mean, nothing?" she said. "There're police cars and an ambulance out there."

"Was somebody hurt?" the bearded guy asked. He spoke in an uppity, pretentious way; he was probably a self-important grad student or a college professor.

A squat, dark-but-graying middle-aged guy, wearing a black sport jacket, came up behind the bearded guy.

"Do you live at this address?" the man asked me.

"Yes," I said.

"Detective Romero." He flashed a badge. "Can I come in?"

"Yes, please, of course," I said. I was trying not to act nervous.

Then I thought, Why shouldn't I be acting nervous? After all, my girlfriend had just killed herself.

As Romero entered the apartment, Carmen said, "Why won't you tell me what's going on?"

Romero was looking back, and there was no way I couldn't answer.

"My girlfriend committed suicide," I said.

"Oh, my God," Carmen said, looking truly horrified. "But she was okay just an hour ago, when you two were fighting."

Romero suddenly seemed interested.

"It happened when I was gone," I said to Carmen. "Remember, you saw me leaving before. When I came back Rebecca had locked herself in the bathroom."

"All I know is you were throwing her clothes out on the street," Carmen said. She turned to Romero and said, "You can go look some of her things are still out there. You should hear them fighting all the time. It's like I'm living in a flophouse."

"Excuse me," Romero said to Carmen, and he continued into the apartment ahead of me. I glared at Carmen as I shut the door.

Romero went over to Fitch and got an update on the situation. I wasn't sure what to do, so I just stood there, waiting in the living room.

I watched Romero and Fitch go toward the bathroom. They spoke with the black officer, who was standing in the hallway, and then Romero went into the bathroom by himself.

Romero stayed in the bathroom for what seemed like a long time. It might've been ten minutes, but that still seemed like a long time to view the body of a suicide victim.

The buzzer rang again. When I opened the door a young Asian guy with a camera around his neck was standing next to a red-haired guy with a beard.

"Police photographer," the Asian guy said.

"Medical examiner," the red-haired guy said.

I directed the men toward the bathroom, trying to stay calm. I didn't know why a crime-scene photographer and a medical examiner had been called to the scene of a suicide.

Several more minutes passed, and then Romero exited the bathroom. He exchanged some more words with the officers, then approached me.

"Mr. Miller, I want to give you my condolences," he said. "It must've been pretty rough, finding her in there."

"It was."

"Can we sit down?" he said. "I need to ask you a few questions."

"Sure," I said.

I sat on the couch and Romero sat across from me in the chair. I'd thought he was older when he arrived, but now I could tell that the gray in his hair was premature, and he looked like he was about my age, maybe younger.

"So do you have any idea why she would kill herself?" Romero asked. He had taken out a pad.

"No, not really."

"You have no idea at all?"

Figuring that, thanks to Carmen, he was going to ask me about the fight Rebecca and I had had, I decided to beat him to the punch.

"I mean, there'd been some tension between us lately," I said, "but I don't think she'd kill herself over it."

"Yeah, the old lady was saying, you two were having some kind of fight?"

"It wasn't a fight," I said. "We were in the process of breaking up."

"Is that why you tossed her clothes out on the street?"

"I really don't see what this has to do with anything," I said. "Like I said, we were breaking up. I admit it wasn't the most cordial breakup in the world. Maybe that was why she killed herself that was your question, wasn't it?"

"Yeah, that was my question," Romero said, looking down as he wrote in the pad.

"I don't get this," I said. "Isn't it obvious she OD'd?"

"Why is that obvious?"

I looked beyond Romero as I saw the EMS workers carrying Rebecca's body, covered by a white sheet. Everyone left the apartment except Fitch and Romero.

"We mopped up a little for you in there," Fitch said.

"Thanks," I said.

"The body will be taken to Bellevue for the autopsy." Fitch handed me a card. "You can call this number for any information you might need."

Then Fitch turned to Romero and said, "Should we stick around, Tony?"

"Yeah," Romero said, "I'll be done in a few."

Fitch left, and Romero and I were alone. I felt uncomfortable, suddenly remembering the pictures Kenny had taken.

"Are you okay?" Romero asked.

"Yeah," I said. "Fine."

He squinted at my face. "How'd you get that?"

"I fell the other day," I said, touching my lower lip, "leaving a bank."

"It looks like teeth marks."

Remembering how Rebecca had bitten into my face, I realized he wasn't referring to the healing fat lip from my struggle with Ricky.

"Oh, that," I said. "Yeah, they're teeth marks."

"Where did they come from?"

I shook my head, fed up, then said, "Rebecca bit me, all right? Like Carmen told you, we had an argument and it got a little out of control.

Rebecca was crazy she flipped out sometimes. I told her she had to move out and she basically attacked me. I was trying to get her off me, and she started biting me. Then I got angry and dumped some of her stuff on the street. I took a walk, and when I came back she'd locked herself in the bathroom. I saw the water coming out into the hallway, so I broke down the door and called nine-one-one."

"The medical examiner noticed trauma to the victim's throat. Do you know how that happened?"

"I might've grabbed her throat," I said, "trying to get her off me."

Romero had turned his head, looking back toward the kitchen counter at, I noticed, the empty bottle of whiskey.

"Were you drinking today?" he asked.

"Rebecca was," I said. "When I came home from work she was drunk and acting crazier than usual. That's when I told her I'd had it, and she came after me. Are you done with the questions?"

"Not yet," Romero said. "You said you suspected an overdose. Do you know what kind of drugs she might've been taking?"

"Rebecca was into the club scene," I said. "I know she took a lot of Ecstasy."

"Anything else?"

"Pot, coke, some meth."

"That it?"

"Far as I know."

Romero wrote in his pad.

"Was she depressed lately?" he asked.

"No, not really," I said.

"Did she ever try to kill herself before?"

"Not that I know of."

Romero was about to ask another question when the buzzer rang. Figuring it was officers coming back into the apartment, I pressed the buzzer, and, about a minute later, I opened the door, surprised to see Rebecca's friend Ray standing there. He looked like he'd been crying, and I knew the officers outside must've told him about Rebecca.

"Say it ain't true," Ray said. "Please say it ain't true."

Romero and I just looked at him.

"Fuck!" Ray shouted. "Why? Why'd she have to go do that shit?

Why?"

Ray started crying.

"What's your name?" Romero said to Ray.

"His name's Ray he was a friend of Rebecca's," I said.

"I'm Romero, NYPD. Did you happen to speak with Ms. Daniels recently?"

"She called me up before," Ray said, still crying, "like at nine o'clock. She sounded whacked, know what I mean? Started talkin' some crazy shit said she was gonna kill herself."

"Did she say why she wanted to end her life?" Romero asked.

"She was sayin' all this shit," Ray said. "Said she was a horrible person and all this shit made no sense. She was talkin' about him a lot too." Ray jutted his chin toward me.

"What about him?" Romero said to Ray.

"I don't remember all of it," Ray said. "She just said he'd been takin' a lot of shit out on her lately, and said he was bonin' some other bitch too."

"What?" I said.

"That's what she said," Ray went on. "Said it was some bitch, Angie."

"That's a total lie," I said.

"I ain't lyin', man," Ray said to Romero. "She was real mad about it too. I was like, "Take it easy, yo, chill," but she said she was gonna take pills and shit. I didn't believe her, man, but I told her I'd come by later anyway, just to hang out with her."

"Who's Angie?" Romero asked me.

"I work with a woman named Angie, but we're just friends," I explained.

"I have no idea why Rebecca would've said that."

"Yo, you think I'm lyin'?" Ray said to me, as if challenging me to a fight.

"No," I said, "I believe Rebecca told you that, but it's not true."

"Why would she lie?" Ray said.

"I don't know," I said. "She was always making up stories, getting paranoid. Come on, you knew Rebecca. You knew she was crazy, right?"

"Becky wasn't crazy, yo," Ray said. "She was a little wild, that's all."

"Did Rebecca tell you anything else on the phone this evening?" Romero said to Ray. "Did she say something else was bothering her?"

"Yeah," Ray said, "she said she was afraid David was gonna dump her ass on the street."

"Thank you," Romero said. "Can you wait outside, please, Mr…?"

"Ramirez," Ray said. "Yeah, I'll wait." Then he left the apartment, pulling on the door handle to make the door slam.

"I guess I'll get out of your way now too," Romero said to me, "give you some time alone. But about this Angie he mentioned. What's her last name?"

"Nothing was going on between Angie and me," I said. "I have no idea why Rebecca told Ray that."

"I believe you, but can I have her last name anyway?"

"What does she have to do with anything?" I said. "I mean, I don't want to drag her into»

"Can I just have her last name please?" He sounded frustrated.

"Lerner," I said.

"Thank you," he said as he wrote in his pad. Then he said, "Phone number?"

"Don't know it," I lied. I had her home number programmed into my cell phone.

He looked at me suspiciously, then said, "How about a work number?"

I gave him the main number at Manhattan Business, figuring it would be easy for him to get it anyway, then said, "But please don't drag her into this if you don't really have to."

Romero put his pad away in his jacket pocket.

"I'll be in touch with you after the autopsy results," he said. "You'll be around, right?"

"Yes," I said.

"Good."

After the door shut I went into the foyer and listened. Sure enough, I heard the doorbell to the apartment across the hall ring, and then Romero started talking to Carmen. Their voices were so muffled that, even with my ear against the door, I couldn't make out exactly what they were saying. Their conversation lasted only a few minutes; then the door closed and there was silence. I walked away, deciding that I should call Angie at home and warn her that Romero might call her. I reached into my pocket and took out my cell phone, then decided that I wasn't in the mood to talk to her. But while I had my phone out I decided I might as well get it over with and call Rebecca's mother. I went to the hallway where Rebecca's pocketbook was hanging on the knob of the closet door. I found Rebecca's cell phone, but her mother's phone number wasn't programmed in. I didn't know why I expected the number to be there, since Rebecca had barely been in touch with her mother. I remembered Rebecca telling me her mother's name was Edna, and that she'd never remarried after her husband took off. Rebecca had said that her mother had moved from Duncanville to another part of Texas I couldn't remember if it was Houston or San Antonio. After striking out in San Antonio, I tried Houston, and sure enough the operator had a listing for an Edna Daniels. I dialed the number.

"Edna Daniels?"

"Who's this?" the woman asked with a Southern drawl. A TV was blasting in the background.

"My name's David Miller," I said. "I'm sorry to call so late, but are you Rebecca Daniels's mother?"

There was a long pause, and all I heard was the TV noise; it sounded like the Home Shopping Network.

"Are you still there?" I asked.

"Yeah, I'm still here."

"Are you Rebecca Daniels's mother or not?"

"I used to have a daughter named Rebecca, but, far as I'm concerned, she's been dead a long, long time."

"So she is your daughter," I said.

"Was," she said. "What's this all about anyway? Becky's in some kinda trouble, I'm sure."

"I'm afraid I have some very bad news," I said. "Rebecca and I have been living together for about a year, and she… well, she committed suicide today."

For several seconds all I heard was TV noise. Then Edna said, "That's all you called to tell me?"

"Yes," I said. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she said. "Never been finer, if you wanna know the truth.

Is that all you want to say?"

"Maybe you didn't hear me," I said. "Rebecca killed herself today."

"I heard you."

"I just thought you'd want to know."

"I told you, my daughter's dead to me before you called, so what difference does it make, you call me up and tell me she's dead?"

"None, I guess."

"You know how much humiliation that girl caused me? You know how much pain she caused? Good, I'm glad she's dead. She's better off dead.

Now when I tell people she's dead it'll be the truth. Can I hang up now?"

"Sure," I said, and the call clicked off.

I held the phone up to my ear for several seconds before shutting it off. Although Rebecca had never given me many details, she'd always made out as if her mother was extremely overbearing and controlling, and I knew they'd had serious problems when Rebecca was a teenager.

Still, I couldn't imagine what had happened between them that had made her mother become so cold and heartless that she didn't care that her own daughter had died.

I hadn't peed since I'd come home from the bar, and I had to go badly.

About to enter the bathroom, I hesitated, then went in, trying to avoid looking toward the bathtub. I had to stand over the bowl for a long time, feeling like an old man, waiting for my urine to start coming out. Finally it started to dribble out, but it took a few minutes for my bladder to drain completely. After I flushed I accidentally glanced toward the bathtub, which looked perfectly normal, as if nothing had happened. Then my legs started buckling and I had to rush out of the bathroom and catch my breath.

In the hallway I started breathing semi-normally, but then the tears started coming and then the momentum-crying kicked in. Finally I pulled myself together, reminding myself how crazy Rebecca was, and how she'd attacked me earlier and could've seriously hurt me.

I went into the kitchen and poured myself a glass of water from the Brita pitcher. I drank it quickly and poured another and drank that too. I felt better for a while, and then I remembered the sight of Rebecca's naked body bobbing in the bathtub how white she'd looked and I decided that spending the night someplace else could be a good idea.

I thought about where to go, and the first idea that came to me was Barbara's; then I had to actually remind myself that she was dead. I laughed, shaking my head, then considered taking a train out to the Island and spending the night at Aunt Helen's. She'd definitely let me stay for as long as I liked, but did I really want to deal with her nagging? When she found out about Rebecca, she'd start hounding me to see her friend Alice's son, the grief counselor, and that was the last thing I needed.

Maybe I could stay at a friend's. Keith lived right across town, on Seventy-fifth and Second, but since the failed intervention over Rebecca I'd fallen out of touch with him and the rest of my friends. A few months ago, he'd called me at work and asked if I wanted to meet up for lunch sometime. I was on another line and told him I'd call him right back, but I never did. It would have been awkward to call him now and say, "Sorry I've been such a dick lately, man, but my girlfriend's dead, so could I crash at your place for a couple of nights?"

Without realizing it, I'd picked up the phone and started dialing.

"Angie?"

"Yeah." She sounded half-asleep.

"David. Sorry to call so late."

There was a pause, and then she said, "It's okay, I wasn't asleep yet. What's up?"

"Nothing much," I said, wondering why I'd called.

"Oh," she said.

"It sounds like I woke you," I said.

"You didn't."

"I'll call you tomorrow."

"No, it's okay."

"It's no big deal," I said. "Get some rest."

"Is something wrong?" she asked.

"No, of course not," I said. "Good night."

"Good night," she said, sounding confused.

I had to do something to keep my mind occupied, so I started playing stock-car racing on my Play Station Barbara had bought me the console and a few games for my thirtieth birthday. Whenever she came over we'd play, getting loud and competitive, like kids.

"I'm gonna lap you," I said.

"No, you're not," she said, hitting the brakes, causing me to rear-end her, lose control, and crash into a brick wall.

"Cheater," I said, steering my car back on the road. "I'm gonna get you." I accelerated at top speed, getting back into the race. "Okay, here we go, baby."

"So you want to go on a date Friday night?" she asked.

Making a hairpin turn at top speed, I said, "With you?"

"With my friend Stacy at work."

"Not interested."

"She's really cute."

"Okay, ready? Watch this."

"Don't you want to meet somebody?"

"There you are…"

"I think you'll really like Stacy."

"… and here I come."

"Won't you just call her?"

"Ha! Lapped you!"

I continued playing the game for a while longer, but I was too distracted to focus on it and I kept crashing into things, exploding.

At one point I thought about Charlotte and Kenny. It was strange, but with everything that had happened this evening, I'd almost forgotten that I was being blackmailed. As I drove my car off a bridge in a fiery crash, I decided that they had given up. They must've realized I was broke and couldn't give them any money, or one of them would've contacted me by now.

When I glanced at the time on the cable box I was surprised to see that it was one-fifteen, meaning I'd been playing the video game for almost an hour. I decided that a good night's sleep would do me a lot of good, so I shut off the lights in the living room, foyer, and kitchen, and went down the hallway into the bedroom. I stripped to my underwear and realized I had to pee again. I dreaded having to return to the bathroom, but unless I wanted to pee in the kitchen sink or into a milk carton, I didn't have a choice. Finally I decided to just grow some balls and go in there.

As I urinated, I made a point of looking at the bathtub, and the strategy worked. I wasn't sad or horrified anymore I was just angry.

Rebecca was crazy there was no doubt about that but why'd she have to kill herself?

I got into bed and tried to fall asleep. After about an hour of stirring, I returned to the living room and resumed playing the stock-car racing game, getting into a four-car pileup on the first bend.

SATURDAY MORNING, I decided I needed to get the hell out of my apartment. Without shaving or showering, I put on my Rollerblades and glided along Eighty-first Street. I hadn't bladed in a long time; I felt awkward for a block or so, stumbling a few times, and then I got back into the groove. At a deli on Broadway, I bought a chocolate chip muffin and a cup of coffee, and then I bladed into Riverside Park.

It was a perfect day the sun blazing, the sky deep blue and cloudless, and it felt like it would definitely hit eighty later on. I headed downtown along the promenade adjacent to the Hudson, going at a pretty good clip by the time I reached the West Fifties. I'd been planning to blade all the way to Battery Park, but I tired out near the Chelsea Piers and had to sit on a bench to rest.

A young woman with long, dark hair in a ponytail was sitting at the other end of the bench. She was wearing black yoga pants and a black sports bra and looked like she'd just finished a run.

I stared at her until she noticed me, and then I said, "Great day, huh?"

"Yeah," she said. She smiled politely and looked away again. She had a plain-looking face, but she was still very good-looking.

"So do you run here often?" I asked.

She turned back toward me suddenly, as if my lame pickup line had jolted her.

"Once in a while," she said.

"Me too." I squinted. "Have we met somewhere before?"

"I don't think so."

"You really look familiar. Have you been on TV?"

"No."

"Radio?"

"You recognize me from radio?"

I laughed, then said, "I know I've seen you somewhere. Do you live uptown?"

"No."

"Oh, well. We must've crossed paths somewhere. By the way, I'm David."

"Ellen," she said.

I held out my hand and we shook. I hadn't done anything to hide the fact that I was blatantly hitting on her, but she seemed amused anyway.

She acted like she wasn't used to guys trying to pick her up.

"So what do you do?" I asked. "Maybe that's how we know each other."

"I'm a speech therapist," she said.

"Really?" I said, trying to sound truly interested. "Where do you work?"

"St. Vincent's Hospital."

"Cool. I mean, that's a great hospital."

"What do you do?" she asked.

"I'm the associate editor of Manhattan Business magazine." It was strange, saying my new title aloud for the first time.

"I subscribe to Manhattan Business," she said, her voice brightening.

"Really?" I said. "I don't think I've ever met an actual subscriber.

Or at least not a subscriber who's a speech therapist."

She laughed at my attempt at a joke. We started talking about the magazine for a while, and then I asked her a few questions about her job. We were making a lot of eye contact and she seemed to have warmed up to me.

"Do you want to get something to eat?" I asked.

She hesitated, caught off guard.

"Come on, I know we're not dressed for anything fancy," I said. "We could just go to a diner or something and talk some more. What do you say?"

"I have to be home for something at noon," she said. "What time is it now?"

"Just after eleven," I said. "Come on, there must be something nearby."

"All right," she said.

She stood up and I was pleasantly surprised she had a much better body than I expected. She was thin and toned all over.

We exited the promenade, talking about Chelsea Piers. She said she used to be a member of the health club there, but had quit because it was too expensive. Then we started talking about restaurants in the area, recent movies we had seen, and how nice the weather had been so far this spring. The conversation was dull but pleasant.

We walked over a few blocks to Eighth Avenue and decided to go into a bagel store. I bought us bagels with low-fat lox spread and coffees and we sat at a table by the window and continued to get to know each other. She told me about how she'd grown up in Manhattan, in Stuyvesant Town, and gone to Hunter College. When it was my turn to give a personal history, I intentionally omitted that my girlfriend had committed suicide yesterday.

I noticed it was a few minutes past noon and I said, "Didn't you have to get back?"

"It's okay," she said. "I just had to do some laundry and shopping I can do it later."

We continued chatting until long after our food was gone. During our conversation, she mentioned that she sometimes went to the weekend antiques flea market on Sixth Avenue and Twenty-sixth Street. I suggested going there, and she said that was a great idea. At the flea market we strolled around, browsing the junk and furniture. She said she needed a lamp for her night table and I helped her pick out a green-and-red stained-glass one.

"You'll have to see how it looks with the rest of my stuff sometime," she said.

We left the flea market, holding hands. I told her that my ankles were sore from blading and that I was going to take the subway home. She walked me to the subway station at Twenty-third and Seventh. We chatted for a while longer by the entrance to the station, and then I said, "So we'll have to go out sometime."

"Definitely," she said.

At a nearby news kiosk, the worker lent us a pen and gave us a small piece of paper. She jotted down her number on the paper and gave it to me.

"I'll call you early next week," I said.

"Great," she said.

I could've kissed her good-bye, but I didn't. I went down the stairs to the subway. On the platform, I ripped up the paper into little pieces and dropped the shreds onto the tracks.

Back home, I showered. It was surprisingly easy, standing where Rebecca had died. I barely even thought about it.

Fully dressed in slacks and a button-down shirt, I went into the living room. The answering machine was flashing, indicating a new message. I hadn't noticed the message when I came home before, so the person must ve called while I was in the shower. I pressed play and listened to Angie's voice, asking me to call her back. She sounded normal, so I didn't think the police had talked to her. I deleted the message, figuring I'd call her back later or tomorrow, or just see her on Monday.

Deciding that I was in the mood for Japanese, I went to Haru on Amsterdam. As I settled into a chair at the end of the sushi bar, I noticed, three spots down from me, a woman reading an Anne Rice novel.

She had reddish-brown hair and appeared to be about twenty pounds overweight. Her face was average-looking, but she had light blue eyes and there was something sexy about her. We started talking. She was an aspiring stand-up comic, and going by her dry, biting sense of humor that had me cracking up several times, I told her I thought she was going to make it big someday. As I finished my sashimi, I | continued chatting with her, enjoying her company. I knew I could've gotten her number and gone out with her sometime, if I wanted to. After paying for the sushi by breaking one of the hundreds Aunt Helen had lent me, I told the woman, "I hope we run into each other again sometime," and I left.

At a deli on Amsterdam, I bought a six-pack of Heineken and went to the video store on Columbus and rented Pretty Woman on DVD. Back in my apartment, I was drinking beer and watching the movie when I sensed Barbara's presence on the couch next to me.

I paused the movie and tried to concentrate on Barbara, attempting to somehow communicate with her. After a few minutes, I realized I was being ridiculous. Naturally, I'd felt a connection to Barbara while watching Pretty Woman, because we'd watched the movie so many times together. The fact that I'd downed a couple of beers might've been a factor too.

"I must be losing it," I said out loud.

I watched a few more minutes of the movie, and then the phone rang. I pressed pause again and let the machine answer. When I heard Angie's voice I went to the phone and picked up.

"Hi," I said.

"Oh… David," she said, as though she'd been mentally prepared to leave a message.

"Sorry, I just walked in," I said.

"Oh, okay," she said. "Hey, I just got this really weird phone call from this police detective. He said your girlfriend died yesterday."

Romero must've gotten Angie's number from Information.

"Actually, she committed suicide," I said. "Did the detective say died?"

"Yeah."

"Well, it was definitely a suicide. They think she OD'd."

"God, that's so awful, David. Why didn't you tell me about it last night?"

"I don't know."

"You poor thing. Did you… I mean did you like… discover the …"

"Yeah."

"Oh, my God."

I didn't say anything.

"I'm so sorry," Angie said. "I mean, that's so awful. Jesus… This detective guy said something weird, though."

"Weird?"

"Yeah," Angie said. "He said something about how your girlfriend thought you and I were dating."

"I know," I said. "I have no idea where she got that. She knew we were friendly at work I mean, I mentioned your name to her a few times, so she must've just made up stories to herself. Rebecca was very paranoid. She had a lot of problems… obviously. I guess I should've listened to you."

"Stop it," Angie said. "You had no way of knowing… You can't blame yourself when something like this happens."

"I know," I said.

"That's good," Angie said. "Anyway, I was just calling because this detective guy called me, you know, saying your girlfriend was dead, and then he said she thought you and I were… So I just wanted to call you and see if»

"I'm really sorry about all of this."

"Oh, that's okay," she said. "So how're you doing? I mean handling everything."

"I'm fine," I said, glancing at the paused scene from Pretty Woman and then at the spot on the couch where I'd imagined Barbara was sitting.

"I mean, I'm a little shaken up, of course, but all in all…"

"If you need a place to stay," Angie said. "I mean, to get out of your apartment for a while. I mean, you know you're welcome to come to my place."

"I appreciate that," I said, "and thanks for calling, but I'm fine really. I'll see you at work on Monday, okay?"

"Okay," she said.

I hung up with Angie and watched the rest of the movie. Toward the end, I had an unsettling feeling. I thought it might have to do with Rebecca, and then I remembered about Charlotte and Kenny. At least they hadn't called me, or tried to get in touch, but I wasn't sure if this was necessarily good news.

Sunday morning I decided I couldn't procrastinate any longer I had to call the hospital morgue and start making arrangements for Rebecca's funeral.

"Hello," I said to the woman I'd been transferred to. "My name's David Miller. I believe you're holding the body of my girlfriend, Rebecca Daniels."

"Hold on," the bored-sounding woman said. When she returned she said,

"Rebecca Daniels's boyfriend already made arrangements for those remains."

"That's impossible."

"Are you Raymond Ramirez?"

"Ray called you?"

"A Raymond Ramirez called yesterday and made arrangements for those remains. Is there a problem?"

"No, there's no problem," I said. "Thanks."

I was relieved that I didn't have to plan or pay for Rebecca's funeral.

I doubted Ray would invite me, but I wouldn't have gone anyway. Thanks to Ray, all of Rebecca's friends probably blamed me for her death and not having to go would help me to avoid an uncomfortable situation.

But it was funny that Ray had claimed to be Rebecca Daniels's boyfriend. For all I knew, he wasn't lying. My suspicions could have been right all along Ray wasn't gay, and he and Rebecca had been screwing since I'd known her.

It was a beautiful day warmer and less breezy than yesterday. I went out and bought bagels, tofu cream cheese, and the Sunday Times, then returned to my living room and made a fresh pot of decaf and turned on the stereo to a light jazz station. As I was relaxing, I realized that if Rebecca hadn't killed herself, we'd probably be having one of our violent fights this morning.

As I was skimming an article in the magazine section on the baby's brain, I sensed Barbara next to me.

"How's it going, Barb?" I said to the empty space to my left. I waited, as if giving her time to answer, then said,

"Yeah, I'm pretty good, thanks. Recovering, anyway. These past few days have been out of control." I waited again, then said, "So are you really here or what?" I was hoping she'd give me a sign, but there was nothing. I said, "Okay, if you're really here, prove it to me do something. Move the Arts and Leisure section." I stared at the Arts amp; Leisure on top of the pile of papers on the floor, waiting for it to rustle. I thought it moved a little, but I was probably just imagining it.

After breakfast, I went out to a moving supply store and bought ten cardboard boxes. Back at home I put the boxes together, and then I started packing Rebecca's clothes, CDs, shoes, and other belongings.

One thing for sure with Rebecca gone, I'd have a lot less damage on my credit cards. I was so excited about having the bedroom to myself again that the couple of hours or so that it took to pack all of Rebecca's crap passed by quickly. I stacked the boxes in an out-of-the-way spot, in a small alcove in the living room. Although I was anxious to get the boxes out of the apartment, I figured I'd wait a couple of weeks and then call Ray and give him a chance to pick them up; if he didn't want them, I'd just have to get a thrift shop to come.

I spent the rest of the afternoon relaxing, reading more of the Times, and watching TV.

"Nothing's on," I said. Then, turning to golf on ESPN, I said, "I know, you hate golf," and switched to something else.

I realized that, semi consciously I'd been making occasional comments to Barbara all day. While I knew that AS THE OFFICERS started searching the apartment, I tried to make out like I was confused and completely innocent, asking Romero all the logical questions Who's Charlotte O'Dougal? What does this have to do with me? Can you just tell me what the hell's going on here? all the time hoping, although I knew I was kidding myself, that maybe Charlotte O'Dougal wasn't the Charlotte I knew. It didn't matter what I said, though, because, for some reason, Romero barely seemed interested in me. He just kept telling me to sit down and relax and that he'd fill me in later.

So I sat in the armchair and watched as the officers spread out around the apartment, searching through drawers, cabinets, closets, and just about everywhere else.

Romero asked me what was in the boxes, and I explained that I had packed up all of Rebecca's belongings earlier in the day. Romero immediately ordered the cops to start searching the boxes, and they came into the living room and started opening them, spreading the contents out all over the living room floor, making a total mess. As the search continued, Romero had a hushed conversation with the tall, gray-haired man who I assumed was another detective.

The idea that Charlotte was dead hadn't fully set in yet. I wondered if she'd died of natural causes, or ODor if someone had killed her. The first idea that came to me was that Kenny had done it. Maybe they'd had some fight about money or drugs or whatever, and Kenny had snapped.

That would explain why Charlotte hadn't shown up at Starbucks the other day, and why Kenny hadn't tried to blackmail me again. If Kenny had been arrested he could have made a deal with the cops turning over the pictures of me dumping Ricky's body in exchange for a lighter sentence. But none of this explained why Romero had gotten a warrant to search my apartment, but hadn't bothered to arrest me or even question me.

I watched as the officers continued their search. Finally, Romero and the gray-haired man came over and sat down on the couch across from me.

"This is Frank Glazer from the Ninth Precinct downtown," Romero said.

"Frank, this is David Miller, Rebecca Daniels's boyfriend."

"Good to meet you," Glazer said. "Can you tell us where Rebecca Daniels was Thursday night and early Friday morning?"

"I have no idea," I said. I felt frazzled and it was hard to concentrate.

"Come on, it was only a few days ago," Glazer said. "Think."

"I don't know," I said. "Let's see Thursday night. Um, she was home, I guess."

"You guess?"

I remembered that Thursday night was the night I'd gone to meet Charlotte at the Holiday Cocktail Lounge.

I looked over at the cops, who were now meticulously examining each pair of Rebecca's shoes.

"Why does it matter where Rebecca was?"

"We're talking about after midnight, up till around three a.m. Friday morning."

I'd been with Charlotte until about two a.m.

"Can you please explain what's going on?" I said.

"Have you noticed a steel sharpener missing from your apartment?"

"What's a steel sharpener?"

"It's about ten inches long kind of shaped like a screwdriver."

"I don't own a steel sharpener," I said.

"Well, Rebecca Daniels did," Romero said.

"Can you just tell me what the hell's going on?" I said.

"We believe that Rebecca Daniels stabbed Charlotte O'Dougal to death with a steel sharpener between two and three a.m. on Friday morning,"

Glazer said. "The incident took place in the vestibule of Ms.

CDougal's apartment on East Sixth Street."

It was a good thing I was sitting down, because I was suddenly so dizzy I probably would've passed out. Even sitting, Romero and Glazer's faces became fuzzy.

"You okay?" Romero asked.

"Yeah, fine," I said, although I clearly wasn't.

"You want something to drink? Some water or something?"

"No, that's okay," I said.

"This is a photo of Ms. O'Dougal," Glazer said. "It's an old one, but it's the only one we could find."

I glanced at the crinkled snapshot of Charlotte that looked almost nothing like her. It must've been taken in high school, in Bloomfield Hills, Michigan. She had waist-length brown hair and was smiling, leaning against a red sports car. She looked sexy in a slutty kind of way.

"Have you ever seen her before?" Glazer asked.

"Never," I said. My voice was still unsteady.

"So do you know how Rebecca could've known Charlotte O'Dougal?" Romero asked.

"No idea," I said. "So why do you think Rebecca killed this what was her name?"

"Charlotte O'Dougal," Romero said.

"Yeah, Charlotte O'Dougal," I said.

"We had no idea at first," Glazer explained. "There were no witnesses to the murder and no fingerprints or other physical evidence. All we had to go on was a price sticker on the murder weapon."

"A price sticker?" I said.

"The steel sharpener had been purchased at Bed Bath and Beyond," Glazer explained. "On the chance the purchase had been made recently, we contacted the Bed Bath and Beyond stores in the New York area and created a list of the people who had purchased this particular steel sharpener and who'd paid by credit card. Rebecca Daniels was on this list. She'd purchased the steel sharpener at the Sixth Avenue store on Thursday afternoon with a Discover card."

"What the hell are you talking about?" I said. "Just because she bought a steel sharpener, what makes you think she killed somebody?"

"I guess you don't know about Rebecca Daniels's history," Romero said.

"History?" I asked.

Romero and Glazer exchanged looks again.

"Three years ago Rebecca Daniels was living in L.A.," Romero said.

"Yeah, so?" I said.

"Did you know she was married to a man named David Hardle?"

So Rebecca hadn't been lying about her former husband, the other David.

"Yeah, she did tell me a little about that, just recently, as a matter of fact," I said. "She said they got divorced."

Romero and Glazer looked at each other, smirking.

"What's so funny?" I said.

"It wasn't a divorce," Romero said. "What your girlfriend might've forgotten to tell you is that one night she stabbed her husband to death in the chest with a steel sharpener. She claimed somebody broke into the house and did it, but the case was pretty much open-and-shut.

Her prints were on the murder weapon, and she had motive. The victim's friends said Hardle had been having an affair and wanted out of the marriage, and Daniels was giving him a hard time about it."

Feeling dazed, wondering if this was really happening, I said, "So if Rebecca killed her husband, why didn't she go to jail?"

"Thank the American legal system," Romero said. "Evidence was mishandled, witnesses lied, and, apparently, Daniels was good on the stand. She claimed her prints got on the weapon when she tried to pull it out of her husband's chest. The jury bought it and she got off and moved to New York."

One of the cops searching through Rebecca's things said, "Hey, Frank, check this out."

Glazer and Romero went over and the cop showed them a pair of Rebecca's shoes. Glazer examined the shoes closely, then said, "Looks good." The cop put the shoes in a plastic bag, and then another cop showed the detectives one of Rebecca's jackets.

As the detectives and the cops continued to talk, I tried to absorb the fact that for over a year I'd been living with a cold-blooded killer.

Rebecca had told me that I didn't really know her, and now I knew what she meant. Then I started to imagine what could've happened on Thursday night. I'd thought Rebecca had been asleep when I left to meet Charlotte at the bar, but she could've been awake. She could've followed me downtown, maybe in another cab, and seen me with Charlotte. She could've assumed that Charlotte was Angie, then followed her home and killed her.

Romero and Glazer returned to their seats on the couch.

"So you really had no idea about what happened in L.A.?" Romero said to me.

"If I knew, why would I stay with her?"

"Unfortunately we might have some more bad news for you," Romero said, and then he turned to Glazer.

"Charlotte O'Dougal," Glazer said to me, "the woman who was killed, was a junkie and a prostitute. She lived with a guy named Ricardo Alvarado."

Glazer showed me a picture of Ricky. This photo looked much more recent than the one of Charlotte. Ricky's scruffy face and dark, wolflike eyes looked painfully familiar. Somehow I managed to stay calm.

"Alvarado and O'Dougal had a history of domestic abuse," Glazer said.

"On Thursday morning he was found dead from severe head injuries in front of the building where he and O'Dougal lived. It was just a few feet away from where we discovered O'Dougal's body."

"Jesus," I said, still looking at the photo. I realized that my hands were tensing, and I had to consciously try to keep them still.

"Initially we thought Alvarado's murder had been drug-related, or maybe a botched robbery attempt," Glazer said, "but now that his girlfriend's dead it looks like there could be more to it. Do you have any idea what Rebecca's connection to these people was?"

"Nope," I said, shaking my head.

"Are you sure?" Glazer asked.

"Positive."

"Look at the pictures again," Romero said.

I glanced at them, then said, "Sorry, I've never seen these people before. I'm absolutely positive."

They seemed to believe me.

"Do you have any idea at all how Rebecca Daniels could've come into contact with them?" Glazer asked.

"Nope," I said, shaking my head. "I mean, Rebecca used to go out a lot I mean, dancing at clubs downtown. She also went to raves sometimes in the East Village and Alphabet City. Maybe she met them at a club or something."

"You know which clubs she went to?" Glazer asked.

I gave him the names of several clubs I knew Rebecca had gone to Vivid, Carbon, Chaos, Twirl. The way Glazer was writing in his pad I could tell he thought he had a serious lead.

"You told Detective Romero that Rebecca took various drugs," Glazer said. "What about heroin?"

"What about it?"

"Alvarado and O'Dougal were hard-core addicts," Glazer said. "Did your girlfriend shoot up?"

"Not that I know of."

"Where were you Thursday night?" Romero asked.

"Thursday, lemme think," I said, as if I had to remember. "I think I was home."

"You think?"

"I'm positive. What difference does it make where I was?"

"We got Rebecca Daniels's autopsy results in yesterday. She had Ketamine in her system as well as extremely high levels of GHB, otherwise known as liquid Ecstasy. She could've ODor somebody could've slipped the drugs into a drink."

"Hold up," I said. "If you think I had anything to do with Rebecca's death»

"You admitted having your hands around her throat, and we got two witnesses, Raymond Ramirez and Carmen Stappini, who say you and Daniels had been fighting a lot lately."

"I want a lawyer," I said.

"You're not under arrest," Romero said.

"I don't care," I said.

"Look, if you want to know the truth, I don't think you killed your girlfriend," Romero said. "But until we're sure who killed Charlotte O'Dougal and Ricardo Alvarado, all options are open."

"I'm telling you," I said, "I don't know anything about any of this, and that's the God's honest truth."

"Did Rebecca mention anything unusual happening in her life lately?"

Glazer asked.

"Unusual?" I said.

"Maybe someone had threatened her or tried to blackmail her?"

I had to catch my breath, but I coughed into my hand to cover it up.

"No," I said.

"Did Rebecca ever mention a guy by the name of Kenny Farrini?"

"Who?" I asked.

Glazer repeated the name.

"Nope, never heard of him," I said believably. "Why? Is he dead too?"

I prayed the answer would be yes.

"Farrini's alive and well," Glazer said. "He was I guess what you'd call an associate of Ricky's. They were smalltime con artists, and they both have long rap sheets. We've been questioning Farrini, but so far he hasn't given us much."

"I have absolutely no idea who he is," I said.

The cops seemed to be finishing up searching the apartment. I breathed deeply, hoping this would signal to the detectives that it was time to wrap things up, but Glazer and Romero didn't budge.

"There's another theory we're toying with," Romero said. "As I'm sure you recall, Rebecca's friend Raymond Ramirez claimed that Rebecca had told him she thought you were having an affair with that girl Angie Lerner."

"So what does that have to do with anything?" I said.

"I already spoke with Ms. Lerner, and she confirmed she wasn't having an affair with you," Romero said, "but maybe Rebecca somehow mistook this Charlotte for Angie and killed her in a jealous rage."

"I guess it's a possibility," I said.

"But the questions remain," Romero said. "Why did she go down to the East Village to kill this woman? How did she get the idea she was Angie? And how does Ricardo Alvarado figure into all of this?"

"Maybe you're better off with your drug theory," I said.

"Maybe," Romero said. "But Charlotte O'Dougal wasn't a dealer she was a heroin addict, and there wasn't any evidence of heroin in Rebecca Daniels's system. It's hard to see how drugs could connect them."

I shook my head, as if stumped. Romero and Glazer exchanged I guess we should go now looks, and then they both stood up.

"Sorry if we interrupted your grieving," Romero said, maybe sarcastically. "We'll definitely be in touch."

After the cops left I bolted the door and remained in the foyer, listening to hear if they were going to talk to Carmen again. I didn't hear a bell ringing or any voices, and I was satisfied that the detectives had left the building.

The apartment was a mess. Drawers and closest doors had been left open, and some of Rebecca's stuff was still strewn on the floor. I figured I'd clean later. I'd sweated a lot during the past hour and needed a shower desperately.

I turned on the water as hot as I could stand it, and I used the shower's massage mechanism, but I couldn't relax. There had definitely been sarcasm in Romero's voice he knew I wasn't grieving as much as I should be after my girlfriend's suicide, and he suspected I was somehow involved. I imagined the detectives going to talk to Kenny again and accusing him of killing Ricky. If they put enough pressure on him, or even took him in and started beating the crap out of him, he'd turn over the pictures of me, and that would be it.

Then I started replaying the events of Thursday night. I remembered how Charlotte's phone call had awakened me on the couch. Rebecca could've listened in on the conversation on the bedroom extension. Then Rebecca wouldn't have needed to follow me downtown, because she'd have known I was going to the Holiday Cocktail Lounge. When I came home, I'd seen Rebecca in bed, but I recalled how after I left the bar I'd walked for a while in the rain. Rebecca would've had time to kill Charlotte, then return home before I did.

Other details that had confused me were suddenly clear. Rebecca's motive for suicide was more understandable now, since she was probably reeling from killing Charlotte the night before. Rebecca's mother's non reaction to her daughter's death also made sense, given the humiliation that Rebecca's trial had probably brought her.

As the water beat down against my head, I imagined Rebecca stalking Charlotte in the rain. Rebecca was gripping the steel sharpener, maybe concealed inside her coat. As Charlotte approached her building, Rebecca had probably rushed up behind her and forced her way inside. I pictured the steel sharpener going into Charlotte's bony back and her body crumpling onto the floor. Then I imagined Rebecca standing over the body with a gleeful, crazed expression before walking away in the rain.

The shower water was still very hot, but I got chills anyway, thinking about how Rebecca could've easily killed me during one of our fights, or while I was asleep.

I turned the dial on the shower massage to its strongest level. The firm, single stream of hot water kneading into my back and neck muscles still couldn't relax me.

"Everything's gonna be okay," Barbara said.

"Yeah, sure it is," I said.

I was getting dressed in the bedroom when the buzzer on the intercom sounded again. Now what the hell did the police want?

Deciding that this time I'd definitely refuse to let them into the apartment, even if it meant getting arrested, I said into the intercom,

"What is it?"

"New York Post," a man's voice said.

Shit, I should've realized that the media was going to be all over this story.

"No comment," I said.

As I walked away, the buzzer sounded again. I ignored it and went back into the bedroom and put on jeans and a sweatshirt. That Post reporter was still ringing the buzzer, and I realized he wouldn't give up until I gave him some kind of statement. I put on sneakers with no socks and left my apartment. Approaching the vestibule, I saw a young blond guy with his finger on the buzzer to my apartment. Beyond this guy, behind the other door leading to the outside, there seemed to be about ten other people.

I opened the inside door and the small crowd rushed into the vestibule through the other door. They all seemed to be speaking at once, pointing mikes in my direction, shouting questions.

"All right, all right," I said. When they quieted down I said, "Just go back outside and I'll make a statement."

The reporters started to move back outside when I heard someone approaching behind me. I turned around and saw it was Carmen. She was hunched over with her chin tilted up, glaring at me.

"What's going on now?" she said.

"Nothing," I said.

"What do you mean, nothing?" she said. "The cops were here before, and now all these reporters are here, causing a racket."

"Please just go back into your apartment," I said.

"Why do I have to go back into my apartment? This is my hallway as much as it is yours. I've been living here thirty-seven years. I can stand wherever I want to stand."

I realized it didn't make a difference whether Carmen heard my comment in person or read about it in tomorrow's papers.

I went outside and Carmen followed behind me. I was surprised to see a few news cameras aimed at me, in addition to all the microphones.

Photographers were there too, and I squinted as the flashes went off.

"This has all come as a shock to me," I said. "All I ask is that you please have some respect for my privacy during this very difficult time. Thank you."

As I headed back into the building, stepping around Carmen, the reporters shouted questions at my back. I made out a few of the questions "Did you know about Rebecca Daniels's past?" "How does it feel to know your girlfriend was a psychotic murderer?" then the voices merged into loud noise.

Following me to my apartment, Carmen said, "What's this about your girlfriend murdering people? What happened now?"

I went into my apartment and bolted the door and put the chain on. Then I went into the hallway closet and took the Phillips screwdriver out from the toolbox in the closet. I unscrewed the cover to the buzzer and yanked out several of the wires. Hopefully the reporters wouldn't harass me anymore, but just in case I wanted to make sure I didn't have to listen to the buzzer all night.

Going out to dinner was out of the question now, with all the reporters out there.

"How about we eat in instead?" I asked Barbara.

I didn't sense her presence the way I had earlier.

"Barb, are you here?"

I waited, but I still didn't sense anything. I figured I wouldn't push it; I'd just try again later.

I decided that ordering food in was a bad idea. For all I knew there were even more reporters outside now, and they'd rush the door when I let the delivery guy in.

There wasn't much in the house to eat: a packet of Cup-a-Soup and a jar of marshmallow fluff in the cupboard, and a package of frozen peas that I used as an ice pack in the freezer.

After I had the Cup-a-Soup, I turned on the TV to the Cartoon Network and ate fluff on a spoon as Tom chased Jerry.

"God, you're so immature," Barbara said.

"Are you here?" I said.

"You know what your problem is? Your problem is you never grew up. You can't let go."

"Barb?" I said. "Barb?"

There was no answer.

During "Popeye," I found myself nodding off. I left the dirty dishes on the coffee table and went into the bedroom and lay down.

I fell asleep and quickly began to dream. Barbara and I were in a split ranch-style house, decorated like Aunt Helen's house, but it wasn't, in someplace suburban that looked like Dix Hills, Long Island, except there were mountains. Then the scene switched to Manhattan and we were in Barbara's old apartment on Eighty-fourth Street. The apartment looked exactly like her old apartment, except the ceilings were much higher and the furniture was different Danish modern, like the furniture in Aunt Helen's house. Then Barbara became Charlotte and the dream turned horrifying. Charlotte was sitting on my lap, playing with my hair and kissing me. I tried to get her off me, but she was too heavy; then I stood up, trying to walk, but she was still attached to my thighs. Then Charlotte turned into Kenny and I tried to get away from him, but we were stuck like Siamese twins, and he was laughing in his sick, demented way.

I woke up sweating, convinced that Kenny was attached to me. After a few seconds, I realized I'd been dreaming, but I couldn't calm down.

The room was empty and very quiet. I still didn't sense Barbara anywhere.

THE NEXT MORNING there were only a few reporters camped in front of the building. As I went down the block they followed me, shouting questions at my back as if I were Princess Di.

Finally I turned around and shouted, "Leave me the hell alone!"

They followed me for another half a block, but gave up as I turned onto Amsterdam. Walking along Seventy-ninth Street, I looked behind me, thankful that the reporters weren't there.

Crossing Broadway, I stepped off the curb while the light was still yellow, and then I heard the loud, screeching brakes. Thanks to quick reflexes, I managed to jerk backward out of the way, just avoiding getting hit by an SUV. The driver a young Asian guy gave me a long, mean stare before he continued on, shaking his head.

I continued down to the subway, feeling shaken up and out of it.

Several people on the packed platform seemed to be staring at me, and I wondered if it was because they recognized me from the news last night or if they just thought there was something wrong with me.

I didn't remember that today was my first day at my new job as associate editor until I entered my office building. It was too bad that a blackmailer had pictures of me leaving the body of the man I'd killed against a trash can, and that the world had just found out that my dead girlfriend was a psychotic killer, or I might've had something to look forward to today.

When I got off the elevator, I went right to my new office and tried to get involved in my routine. On my calendar, I had scheduled two early phone interviews with analysts familiar with the operations of Prime Net Solutions, the DSL company I was doing a story on. I called the analysts who had some doubts about the company. Due to severe competition, unreliable customer service, and a mixed balance sheet, the future of Prime Net was uncertain. I began writing my article:

Odds are you've never heard of Prime Net Solutions, but that's about to change. Thanks to a flood of new subscribers and an already satisfied customer base, this resurgent DSL company is about to take charge of Manhattan's high-speed Internet industry.

Writing the positive opening paragraph improved my mood. I outlined the rest of the article and started pulling out the most positive portions of the analysts' quotes. I also came up with a title for the article: Prime Net Primed for Greatness." By later in the morning I was able to block out most of my worries, and I felt almost normal again.

"You're here," Angie said.

I swiveled away from the computer monitor and saw her standing at the entrance to my office with a baffled expression.

"Yeah, I decided to come in," I said. "You know, it being my first day at the new job and all."

"Oh," she said. "I just figured you'd be taking some time off. So how are you?"

"Okay," I said. "I mean, considering."

Angie pulled up a chair and sat across from me. In the fluorescent light I noticed her bleached mustache hairs.

"I was going to call you today anyway," she said. "That Detective Romero talked to me again. This time he came to my apartment."

I felt a surge of panic, wondering why Romero wouldn't leave Angie alone.

"So I guess you heard everything," I said.

"I couldn't believe it," she said. "So is it all true?"

"I guess so."

"Detective Romero told me she might've made a mistake. She might've really meant to kill me."

"I doubt that. Rebecca had a lot of strange friends, and she was probably mixed up in some kind of drug thing downtown."

By the look Angie was giving me, I wasn't sure she believed me.

"It was just really scary," Angie said. "I mean, to even hear something like that."

"They're just following up leads," I said. "They get all kinds of crazy leads they have to explore in cases like these. But I'm telling you, I really doubt it had anything to do with you."

"It's just all so freaky," she said. "I mean, I know it's even freakier for you, but still… So you're really okay?"

"I'm just trying to go on with my life," I said. "Hopefully, in a day or two, everybody'll forget all about this."

Angie looked at me as if she thought I was joking. She left my office and returned with a copy of the Daily News. She held the newspaper up and I saw the headline, "MANIAC," with what looked like an old mug shot of Rebecca.

"The Post has the same picture except they went with "PSYCHO' as their headline," Angie said.

I remembered how, months ago, my friends had warned me that Rebecca was psycho and how I'd refused to believe them. I was going to ask Angie to hand me the copy of the News so I could read the article, but I decided against it.

"Hopefully it'll all die down by tomorrow," I said, but I knew it wouldn't. This was the type of story that grew and grew. The tabloids would have a field day with it.

"I still can't believe you came in at all today," Angie said. "You should go on vacation to Mexico or someplace. Just lie on the beach for a couple weeks and veg."

"Maybe we could go together."

Angie seemed surprised for a couple of moments, not sure how to react, and then she played along. "Okay, where do you want to go? Puerto Vallarta? Cancun?"

"How about Cozumel?"

"Cool, let's do it," she said. "How long do you want to stay?"

"How about a week?"

"A week it is," she said. "I better go bikini shopping. I better go on a diet too, if I want to fit into it."

"You kidding? You look perfect just the way you are." There was awkward silence, and then I added, "Well, better get back to work."

"Me too," Angie said. "Hey, you up for going to lunch later? Or maybe we could order in?"

"Jeff and I talked about doing lunch today," I said.

"Ooh, an editorial lunch," Angie said jokingly.

I smiled. I could tell she was waiting for me to suggest another time to go to lunch or to do something else, but I didn't say anything.

"Anyway," she said. "Maybe we could do something tomorrow?"

"Yeah, tomorrow," I said, leaving it vague.

Angie left and I tried to lose myself in my work again, but people kept stopping by, interrupting me, to offer their condolences about Rebecca.

I thanked everyone graciously, although I really wanted to be left alone.

After Kevin and Amy from Payroll came in together to offer their support, Jeff stopped by.

"I heard what happened," he said. "I'm really sorry."

"Thanks," I said.

"You know, you could've taken some time off, just to rest or»

"I wanted to get back into the swing of things," I said.

"You sure? Because if you want someone to cover your stories for you, that's no problem. And we don't have to discuss your new editorial duties until later in the week."

"Aren't we having lunch today?"

"I thought you'd want to take a rain check on that."

"No, I really want to go," I said.

"Okay," he said. "I didn't cancel the reservation yet, so I guess I'll come by to pick you up around noon?"

"Sounds great," I said.

As the morning went on the flow of people stopping by my office dwindled, but I kept getting interrupted by phone calls. The media had found out that I worked for Manhattan Business, and reporters from all over the country were harassing me, trying to get me to comment about Rebecca. After I hung up on reporters from the Miami Herald, the L.A.

Daily News, the Minneapolis Star Tribune, and the Hartford Current, I turned on my voice mail. I wrote a rough version of the entire Prime Net article, in which I described the company's twenty-seven-year-old CEO as "a young Lee Iacocca" and concluded that the company's stock price it was currently trading at about two bucks a share on the Nasdaq was a bargain at current levels. When I checked my voice mail there were about a dozen new messages from newspapers and radio stations around the country. There was also a message from Aunt Helen. She said she'd read about me in the newspaper and was very concerned that she couldn't reach me at home. She told me to please call her as soon as I got her message.

I was deleting all the messages when Jeff came into my office and said,

"Ready?"

I didn't see how it could possibly be noon already, but it was.

"Let's do it," I said.

Jeff and I went to a steakhouse on Forty-ninth Street. The maitre'd seated us at a table upstairs, and a waiter automatically arrived with a mixed drink and a plate of fried calamari. The waiter asked me what I wanted to drink, and before I could answer Jeff said, "Another Manhattan."

Several minutes later, my drink arrived; then Jeff lifted his it was already half-gone and said, "To better days."

"To better days," I said.

We drank. The alcohol was relaxing me, and, for a while, I managed to forget all of my problems. It helped that Jeff was avoiding talking about Rebecca. He went on about his daughter Gretchen, who was the star of her high school soccer team and had just had a small role in her school's production of Our Town. I told him about how my sister, Barbara, had played Emily in Our Town in our high school production. As he went on, telling me about his daughter, I remembered how Barbara had looked so pretty and confident onstage and how proud I'd been that she was my sister.

"I was so proud of you," I said.

"What?" Jeff said.

"What?" I said.

"You said you're proud of me. Why are you proud of me?"

"Oh, not you, I… I mean I was just thinking, Our Town's a really great play, isn't it?"

Jeff was looking at me in a confused yet concerned way when the waiter arrived at the table. Jeff ordered another round of drinks, and then the waiter asked me for my lunch order. I said I'd have the Caesar salad with grilled chicken. The waiter didn't bother to ask Jeff for his order; when the waiter was gone, Jeff told me he'd be having the sirloin.

Jeff started telling me all about his country club near his house in Upper Westchester, and I was zoning out, thinking about Barbara onstage again. I stared at Jeff's mouth and concentrated on the words he was saying, but I kept seeing Barbara in the outfit she wore during the play's third act a white blouse tucked into a knee-length navy skirt.

Jeff invited me to come play golf with him sometime. I warned him that I was an awful golfer, and he said that was fine with him; he loved playing with bad golfers because it made him feel better about his own game. I smiled, remembering how, at the end of the play, I ocn Barbara had smiled at me in the front row while the audience applauded.

We ordered another round. I was feeling pleasantly buzzed, but the alcohol was having a noticeably opposite effect on Jeff. As he told me about my new duties at the magazine in addition to editing I'd have the authority to assign stories to the reporters I noticed that he was starting to slur. Then, as he went on about how the magazine needed to start covering more provocative local stories to differentiate itself from the national competition, he started cursing and speaking in a louder voice. I declined a fourth drink, but as Jeff had his he suddenly started telling me a joke about a priest who had sex with a gorilla. He said the punch line in a booming voice, and two women at a nearby table who seemed to be having a business lunch kept glaring in our direction.

When Jeff stopped laughing, he said, "I got another one for you a guy goes into a proctologist s office," and I suddenly started feeling nauseous. I was hoping it was just indigestion, but then the discomfort started moving higher, from my stomach toward my throat, and I knew I was about to get sick.

"Excuse me," I managed to say as Jeff was still telling the joke.

Keeling over, holding my stomach, I headed toward the bathroom. I was feeling even sicker, and I didn't think I'd make it to the toilet. I thought about solid things wood, cement, bricks and I reached the bowl just as I was starting to yak. After a few minutes I thought I was through, but the sour taste lingering in my mouth reminded me of the last time I threw up in Charlotte's bathroom and I threw up again.

I was sweating badly, and then my knees buckled as I started to stand and I had to grab onto the toilet paper roll to steady myself. Finally I made it to my feet and over to the sink. I stared at the mirror. My eyes were bloodshot and my mouth was sagging open. Splashing a few handfuls of cold water against my face didn't make me look or feel any better. I gargled a few times, and then I left the bathroom and headed back toward my table.

Jeff was arguing with the waiter, but I couldn't hear what they were saying. The waiter had his back to me, and Jeff's face was pink as he spoke in an animated way, gesticulating with his arms. As I got closer to the table, I heard Jeff saying, "… and you're telling me this meat is rare? There's no blood in it. Show me the blood. Show me the fuckin' blood!"

The waiter, a young blond guy, said calmly, "Would you like me to bring the dish back, sir?"

"For what?" Jeff's thin salt-and-pepper hair was usually combed straight back, but now loose strands were hanging over his eyes.

"What're you gonna do, un cook it?"

The waiter was acting as if he'd seen outbursts like this from Jeff many times before. "We can cook you a new order, sir."

"Yeah, and I'll have to wait another twenty fucking minutes to eat. Did you tell the chef I wanted rare? Did you tell him or did you forget?"

"I told him, sir."

"Sure you did." Jeff looked toward me, but didn't make eye contact.

"See? This is what happens when they don't hire professional waiters and they hire fucking actors instead."

"Would you like me to take your dish back, sir?"

"Do whatever the fuck you want," Jeff said. "I'm not eating that shit."

Jeff was shaking his head and cursing to himself; he didn't seem to notice me as I joined him at the table. My salad had arrived, but just looking at food brought back memories of the toilet bowl and I had to cover the dish with my napkin.

"What?" Jeff said. "Something wrong with your food too?"

"I'm just not feeling very well," I said.

"It was probably the calamari," Jeff said, and then he downed the rest of his drink. As he signaled to the waiter for another, he said, "Take a good look at me in this shithole. This is the last time I'm coming here. Four, maybe five years ago the food was great. The last couple of years it started going downhill. Now they should serve it in a fucking feedbag."

Another drink was brought to Jeff. As he drank it he quickly deteriorated into full-blown drunkenness. He was cursing, spraying spit, talking too loud. When he got back to the office he'd probably fire an intern or two.

As another wave of nausea overcame me I said, "Maybe we should just go."

"Good idea," Jeff said. "What do you say to some Japanese?" He pulled on the sides of his face with his index fingers, slitting his eyes.

"I think I'm just gonna get back to the office," I said.

"Come on, don't be a wimp," he said. "The afternoon's young."

I felt like I was at some college frat party and a guy was trying to peer-pressure me into drinking. I got up and went outside. Breathing in the fresh air if you'd consider the air in midtown fresh didn't help much. I still felt sick, and I wondered if I had a virus or if maybe Jeff had been right about the calamari.

Jeff came out of the restaurant, mumbling to himself, and we headed up the block; he was walking half a stride ahead of me, as if I weren't there.

At the corner, I said, "Jeff, I don't want to hold you back. If you want to go someplace else»

He grunted, then said, "It's all right. I'll just order a sandwich or something."

We didn't say anything else to each other until we were back in the office and I said, "See you later," and he said, "Yeah, later." Then I branched off along a different corridor and went into my office.

I had gotten about ten more messages from reporters and one message from Aunt Helen. She sounded even more concerned than before and told me to please call her back as soon as possible.

I still felt zonked out and really didn't feel like talking to her, but I didn't want her to worry about me.

"Hi, Helen."

"David, where are you?"

"Work."

"I was calling you at home too I thought you'd be there today. So is it all true?"

"Looks that way."

"You poor thing I'm so sorry."

"It's okay thanks."

"So you had no idea? I mean, about her husband in Los Angeles."

"No," I said, suddenly feeling clammy.

"It's so awful," Aunt Helen said. "All of it. I'm just glad to hear you're safe."

"You don't have to worry about me."

"Tell me something, David. Does this have anything to do with the money you borrowed?"

"No, of course not," I said.

"Oh, because I was just wondering," she said, "because you were so secretive about it, and then I heard about this and… I just thought I'd ask, that's all."

It was hard to think clearly with the way I felt, but I realized that Helen's trying to make a connection about the money could be a potential problem. If, for some reason, the police started investigating me, they could talk to Helen. She'd tell them about the thousand dollars I'd borrowed, and they'd wonder if I'd given Rebecca money for drugs, or if I were involved some other way.

"That money was for a class at the Princeton Review," I said.

"The Princeton Review?" Aunt Helen said.

"Yeah," I said. "I wanted to see how I did on the test before I told you about it, but I'm studying to take the GMATs. You know, so I can get into an MBA program."

"That's wonderful!" Aunt Helen said. Then her voice became distant as she said to someone else in the office, "My nephew's going to get an MBA." I heard a woman's voice say, "Mazel tov."

I knew the MBA lie would make Aunt Helen happy. After college, before I got my job at the Journal, she used to nag me to apply to grad school every time I saw her.

"So what're you going to do with your MBA?" she asked.

"I don't know, probably get a job as a stock analyst," I said. "You know how much those guys make? Mid six figures or more."

"I think that's great, David." Then, as if suddenly remembering why she'd called, she said, "I just wanted to tell you if you want to come stay with me, you know you're always»

"That's all right," I said.

"Are you sure?" she said. "Because I know how»

"Positive," I said.

I heard her breathe deeply, as if she were frustrated with my stubbornness.

"I know you're going to put up a stink about this, David, but I'm going to say it anyway. I really think you should see my friend Alice's son Benjamin, the grief counselor. Even if you only have one session with him»

"It's not necessary," I said.

"Are you sure, David? Because now I think you have even more reason to"

"It's okay»

" discuss what you're feeling»

"It's okay»

" with a professional»

"I said it's okay," I snapped. Then, in a calmer voice, I said, "I'm sorry, Helen. I really appreciate all your concern, but I can handle this myself I really can."

"I want you to call me tonight," she said.

"I will," I lied.

"Promise."

"Yes."

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

Hanging up was a huge relief. I made sure the voice mail was still on, and then I locked the door to my office and started working again. I still felt weak, but not as bad as I'd felt inside the restaurant; in a few hours I'd probably be fine.

I worked on another draft of my Prime Net article, and then Matt Stern, a young reporter at the magazine, sent me his article to edit. It was a well-written piece about a chain of watch stores that were expanding around the tri-state area. If Peter Lyons were still associate editor he would've decimated the article, extending the sentences into run-ons and adding adverbs and Britishisms. But I edited with a light hand, enhancing Mart's own style, rather than imposing my own. When I was through I read the article over and was very pleased. I was a damn good editor.

Toward five o'clock, the effects of whatever had gotten me sick earlier had almost completely worn off. On my way home, I picked up some safe food to eat bread, yogurt, ginger ale, and bananas. I was relieved to see only a few reporters camped out in front of my building, and I ignored the questions they shouted at me as I went inside. When I opened the door to my apartment, the phone started ringing. Figuring it was another reporter, I let the machine pick up, then heard Detective Romero saying, "Yeah, it's Romero, NYPD again. When you get home can you please»

I picked up and said, "Hello?"

"Mr. Miller?"

"Yes, hi."

"I tried you a couple times today."

"I was at work."

"Really?" he said. "I'm surprised you didn't take some time off."

"What's going on?" I asked.

Although I detected some suspicion in his voice, I wasn't very concerned. I figured if there had been a really important development he wouldn't be contacting me by telephone.

"Well, we've been continuing our investigation, but unfortunately we haven't made much progress. We're still not sure why Rebecca Daniels killed Charlotte O'Dougal, but it's this other murder Ricardo Alvarado that's getting at us. Alvarado was a strong guy. We just don't buy that Rebecca Daniels was able to kill him, causing those kind of head injuries. On the other hand, when a guy and his girlfriend are killed less than a couple days apart we gotta think there's some connection."

"I don't know what to tell you," I said.

"I was hoping you might've thought of something you didn't tell us yesterday," Romero said. "We checked out those clubs you mentioned, but that didn't get us anywhere. You have any other ideas how your girlfriend might've come into contact with Alvarado?"

"If I did, I would've called you."

"Sometimes people forget things, or they think something's not important so they don't bother»

"I didn't forget anything."

"I understand that, Mr. Miller, but I'm conducting an investigation"

"There's nothing to investigate," I said, nearly screaming. "You know Rebecca killed that woman, and it's obvious she had nothing to do with killing Alvarado."

"Why is that obvious?"

I realized I was talking too much and I'd better shut up.

"Because," I said, "like you said, he was a strong guy and I don't know, okay? Maybe Rebecca did kill him, but I told you everything I know."

"Very well," Romero said. "But if anything else comes up I'm going to contact you again. I'm sure you won't hesitate to do the same."

A few minutes later I was putting the groceries away, wishing I hadn't lost my cool. Rather than saying it was obvious that Rebecca hadn't killed Ricky, I should've tried to convince Romero that Rebecca had done it, suddenly remembering some story about a drug dealer she was in debt to. I feared that the longer Romero dug around, trying to figure out what had happened to Ricky, the more likely he'd stumble on the truth.

I had other messages on my machine and I played all of them. Aside from the messages from Romero and Aunt Helen, a few of my old friends had called, saying that they'd read about Rebecca in the papers and wanted to check on how I was doing.

I ate half a banana and a spoonful of yogurt, but I was too aggravated to eat anything else. I imagined Romero questioning Kenny, and Kenny turning me in or holding out to blackmail me either way I'd lose. I considered beating Kenny to the punch and calling Romero back. I could swear that Ricky's death had been an accident, but why would Romero believe me now? It wouldn't help my case that Charlotte, the only person who could back up my story, was dead.

I was short of breath and starting to sweat.

"I need some space," Barbara said. "Oh, stop," I said.

"I'm serious," she said. "I think one of us should move leave New York."

"What're you talking about?"

"I applied to some firms in San Francisco."

"What?"

"And if I get a good offer, I'm leaving."

"Why the hell're you gonna do that?"

"To get away from you."

"Is this more crap from Dr. Kellerman?"

"No, this is what I think."

"Yeah, right. What else did Kellerman say about me?"

"Listen to me this'll be good for you too. You'd be better off with me gone. You could meet somebody, have a normal relationship»

"You just need a vacation. Maybe we should go someplace, the Berkshires or Vermont, or how about Europe? I saw an ad in the paper for cheap tickets to Paris."

"You have to be your own person, David. You have to be a leader, not a follower»

"What're you talking about?"

"You can't depend on me so much you can't follow me everywhere."

"You're not leaving me."

"Yes I am."

"If you go to San Francisco I'm going with you."

"You can't do that."

"Oh, yes I can."

When I left for work in the morning all the reporters were gone, and I decided this was a sign that things might work out for me after all.

Some new story had probably broken that was more interesting than Rebecca's, and pretty soon Rebecca's story would fade completely. As for Kenny, now that he was being questioned and maybe watched by the police he'd probably decide that trying to blackmail me was too much trouble. If I was lucky, I'd never hear from him again.

At work, I remained in my office most of the day, editing several articles. I also worked on my Prime Net article, which was getting even more positive. A few newspaper and TV reporters had left messages on my voice mail, but the Rebecca murder/suicide story definitely seemed to be petering out. Around lunchtime Angie dropped by, suggesting we go out, but I told her I was too busy. Later in the day I saw her talking to another reporter in the corridor outside my office, and I went in a different direction to avoid her.

On my way home, I said to Barbara, "Okay, you want me to become my own person I'll become my own person."

I stopped at a wine store on Amsterdam and decided I'd become a wine expert. I usually never spent more than ten bucks on wine, but I asked the owner to suggest a cabernet in the thirty-dollar range. At home, I sipped the Chateau Montelena with my eyes closed, trying to appreciate its nuances, and then I decided I'd have to make other changes in my life. I'd throw out my rock CDs and replace them with a collection of light jazz and classical. I'd redecorate my apartment, get classier furniture from Restoration Hardware or Ethan Allen. And I'd take a class at the Culinary Institute, learn how to cook French food.

Wednesday morning I was still feeling upbeat about myself and the future when I entered my office building and got the shit kicked out of me. It happened so fast I didn't realize what was happening until I was on my back in front of the revolving door and punches were landing against my face. Finally, a security guard pulled Robert Lipton off of me.

Lipton looked like a wreck his thin gray hair hanging over his scruffy face, his eyes swollen and puffy, as if he hadn't gotten any sleep in days. I realized that the edition of Manhattan Business with the negative article I'd written about Lipton's company had hit the newsstands.

"Son of a bitch!" he screamed at me as the guard held him back. "I'll kill you! I'll fuckin' kill you!"

He continued yelling, telling me that, thanks to my article, he'd lost three of his biggest clients. Two cops showed up. After the security guard explained what had happened, one of the cops asked me if I wanted to press charges. I declined. I didn't want any unnecessary involvement with the police, but I also felt bad about what I'd done to Lipton and I didn't want to screw up his life more than I already had.

The injuries to my face from Ricky and Rebecca had almost disappeared, but now I had a fresh welt on my left cheekbone and my upper lip was swollen and bleeding.

The security guard had given me a first-aid ice pack, but Lipton had gotten a few good whacks in and it didn't help much. I was hoping to lock myself in my office and stay there all day to avoid any attention, but Mike, the guy Angie had dated, had been downstairs in the lobby while the cops were talking to me, and when I arrived in the office he had already told everyone what had happened. Holding the icepack up to my face, I had to hold court in the office's reception area, giving my account of the incident. Everyone expressed their sympathy, and then Jeff took me aside and tried to persuade me to press charges.

"It's okay," I said. "I'd rather just forget about it."

"You sure?" Jeff said. "Because we could send that prick to jail."

I explained to Jeff that, given everything I'd been through lately, I didn't want any more turmoil in my life. Jeff said he understood, but he still thought I was making a mistake.

In my office, I tried to block out what had happened with Lipton and focus on work. A few articles had been e-mailed to me for editing, including one of Angie's. Since I'd been at Manhattan Business I'd always written my articles as quickly as possible, treating my work simply as a job, a means of making money. Now, as an editor, I worked much more diligently, laboring over every word, making sure each sentence was as good as it could possibly be. The only break I took from work all day was during my lunch hour, when I browsed the Net for information about upcoming wine tastings in the New York area.

Thursday was a repeat of Wednesday, minus the attack by Lipton. I was enjoying working late and spending a lot of time alone. For months I'd been so absorbed in Rebecca and our problems that I'd barely had time to myself, and now I enjoyed coming home to a quiet apartment.

Friday morning I was waiting for the elevator in the lobby when Angie appeared behind me. We exchanged hellos, and then the elevator arrived. Other people got on with us, so we didn't talk during the ride up. When we got out on our floor I said, "See ya later," and headed toward my office. Several minutes later I was settling in to start my workday when Angie entered and said, "Can I come in?"

"Sure," I said.

She came farther into my office, but remained standing.

"Look," she said, "I know awful things happened this week and I totally understand that, but I still don't understand why you have to treat me this way."

"What do you mean?"

"Come on, all week you've been blowing me off, pretending that I don't exist. Didn't you even notice we've barely been talking to each other?"

"I've been busy," I said.

"I can't do this anymore," she said. "I mean, if you just need some space I totally understand that, and if you want me to back off I will.

But if there's more to it I mean, if you're angry at me for something, or if I did something wrong»

"Have dinner with me tonight."

She waited, then said, "Really?"

"I'll come by your place at eight o'clock. Come on, what do you say?"

"Okay," she said, "but if you wanted to go out, why have you been blowing me off?"

"Because I was a jerk, that's why. I really want to take you out tonight. What do you say?"

She stared at me for a few seconds; then the corners of her lips curled into a slight smile.

"All right," she said.

"Great," I said.

She gave me her address on East Seventy-fourth, and I told her how much I was looking forward to tonight.

Later in the morning, I went downtown to interview the CFO of Prime Net Solutions. During the interview I kept zoning out, thinking about Angie and getting excited about our first date. Back at my office, I conducted a few phone interviews for the Prime Net article and had to edit the text for next week's Company Report section. I was going to stop by Angie's cubicle to say hi; then I had a better idea. I sent her a bouquet of virtual flowers with a message that read, Thanks for being so patient. After she received the bouquet she IM'd me, telling me how sweet I was.

I'd been staying at the office until seven-thirty, eight o'clock the past couple of days, but today I figured I'd leave at around six, which would give me plenty of time to go home, shower, and change before I went to Angie's.

Around five forty-five, I finished up my work and went to the bathroom.

At the urinal, Kyle from Sales told me a long story about his misadventures of trying to sell his East Side co-op. I continued chatting with him for a while outside the bathroom, then headed back toward my office, deciding that I'd take Angie out to a restaurant near her apartment, maybe to one of those little romantic Italian places off Second. It was going to be perfect, I thought, and then I entered my office and saw Kenny, reclining in my chair with his feet resting on my desk.

HE LOOKED THE same as the last time I'd seen him, at the bar the night I was pick pocketed His long hair was messy and greasy, and he had about a week's worth of beard growth. He was wearing a light blue short-sleeved button down shirt, but he'd missed a couple of buttons and I could see his wife-beater tank top and sweaty chest hair. His body odor a combination of sweat and Old Spice had permeated my office.

"How'd you get in here?" I asked, although this was the last thing I cared about.

"I told the girl up front you were doing an article about me," he said.

"This is a business magazine, right? So how 'bout you do a thing about the blackmailing business? Come in, interview me, I'll tell you exactly how it's done."

"What do you want?"

He laughed, then said, "Besides all your money?" and continued laughing. Finally he calmed down and said, "What do I want? That's a good one. Please, man. If you make me laugh any more I'm gonna pull something." He stared at me seriously, then said, "If I really wanted you to put me in your magazine you'd have to do it. If I wanted you to run around this office screaming, "Suck my hairy cock! Suck my hairy cock!" you'd have to do that too!"

Kenny's voice tended to boom, and I was afraid other people in the office might overhear what he was saying.

"But I gotta admit, you had me scared there for a while," he said.

"When the cops came to me and told me about Charlotte, I thought you did her. I mean, it woulda made sense. She comes to you with the pictures, asks you for the money, then you whack her. Actually, you should thank me for saving your ass. That first night the cops were coming down heavy on me, they thought I did Charlotte and Ricky. They had me in lockup overnight. I was almost gonna finger you for both raps, but then the cops came to me and said they found out your little girlfriend did Charlotte. At first I didn't know what to think; then I was glad 'cause I knew you were still my butt boy for Ricky's murder."

"I didn't murder him," I said.

"And I'm Mother fuckin' Teresa," Kenny said. "Tell me, was this a hobby for you and your psycho bitch girlfriend? You went around town killing people for kicks?"

"I think you should get out of here," I said.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

"I don't think you understand what's going on here," he said. "I control you now, not the other way around, you fuckin' prick. I tell you what to do and you do it. Maybe I should make you take your pants down and run around here that'd be a fuckin' riot." Kenny laughed.

"You gotta give me credit I was pretty swift, wasn't I? I mean taking them pictures in the first place. I knew something was going on that night, the way Charlotte was acting, all fucked up, but I didn't know what. Then, when I got her outside, I got her to spill it. You shoulda seen her, shittin' bricks. She thought I was gonna take you both down; then I told her I was just gonna go after you 'cause you killed Ricky. I told her we could take you for everything you're worth, and look what happened I am!" Kenny laughed. "I told her,

"Just make sure he takes the body down alone and I'll take care of the rest." Of course, she went along with it when she realized she could make a few bucks. Holding money in front of her was like putting a dick in front of Linda Lovelace's mouth. Yeah, Charlotte was a sweet little whore, all right, I'll give her that much. I'll miss her; I really will miss her. She knew how to suck cock like a pro, and you don't see that in a lot of whores these days. Most whores use their teeth and start biting on you like you're a fuckin' hot dog. But Charlotte knew how to deep-throat it, all right. She took it up the ass, too. You gotta respect a whore for that. A lot of whores these days won't let you anywhere near their assholes."

Kenny laughed again, then said, "Charlotte tell you about my will?"

I didn't bother answering.

"I made up a will," he went on. "I paid a lawyer to do it, so it's real official and everything. When I die an envelope gets opened. I wrote out the whole thing how I saw you kill Ricky, how you said you'd kill me if I went to the cops. I got copies of the pictures in there too, with your name and everything. So you see how you can't win, Davey boy. You better hope I live a long life, because when I die you go to jail. Until then, you gotta do whatever the fuck I tell you to do. I don't know if you knew this, but there's no statute of limitations on murder. I could die thirty years from now and they'd still put you away."

I looked at Kenny deadpan for several seconds, then said, "I don't have any money." I let this sink in, then added, "I gave everything I had to Charlotte that night, and I don't know what happened to it, if she spent it on drugs or whatever, but I don't have any more. That's the God's honest truth."

Kenny's eyes narrowed. "Listen to me, you fuckin' dick. I don't think you understand what's going on here. I'm the one calling the shots, not you. You think I don't know you're full of shit? I know more than you think I know, and don't you worry, I'm gonna make you pay for what you did. Charlotte was a nice little whore and I'll miss her, but Ricky was my homeboy. We dropped out of high school together I knew him twenty years and loved him like a brother. You took my brother away from me, you scumbag, and I'm gonna make you pay for it."

"It was an accident," I said. "He was coming after me»

"I did some research," Kenny went on, ignoring me. "I called here the other day, and my friend the receptionist told me you're the associate editor just got promoted. Congratulations, by the way. So then I went to the library you know, the big one on Fortieth and they got this book there. You look up somebody's job; they tell you how much they make.

The book says an associate editor takes in thirty-five to seventy-five a year. So I figure you're probably making fifty a year now, give or take. After Uncle Sam, you probably take home about two grand a month.

I don't want you to go broke that won't help me any. What I'm gonna do is take half. I figure if I leave you with a thousand a month you'll be able to pay your bills, buy some food, and I'll get the rest."

"My rent's sixteen-fifty a month," I said.

"That's your problem, not mine," Kenny said. "If you can't get by, you'll have to get a night job, scrub floors or some shit. But you'll get by somehow, and as long as you get by, I get by. See how this is gonna work?"

"What if I lose my job?" I said.

"I guess you'll have to find another one. But first just to get us started I want that twenty grand."

"I don't have twenty grand."

"Get it."

"I can't get it. I have nowhere to get it from."

"You must got retirement money, a 401 (k) or some shit like that."

Last time I checked, I had about fifty thousand dollars in my 401(k), and I also had a Roth IRA with about fifteen grand.

"Sorry," I said. "I got wiped out when the market crashed."

"You must got something in it."

"Maybe a couple grand."

"Take it out and give it to me."

"I can't. There're forms to fill out paperwork. It could take a few days to get the money, and I'll have penalties and»

"Look, I don't wanna hear any more of your bullshit," Kenny said. "I want at least two grand tonight. If you don't bring it, I'm gonna go to the cops. You think I'm fucking around?"

Kenny stood up. I couldn't tell if his gut was bigger than I'd remembered or if he just had bad posture.

"Tonight," he said, "ten o'clock Tompkins Square Park."

"I can't tonight," I said.

"Yes, you can," he said. "You know, it's kind of 4 don't know the word funny. Not funny, but you know what I mean. That's where Charlotte said you were gonna dump Ricky's body and now that's where you're gonna be making your payoffs. Hopefully every time you go there it'll remind you what you did, you piece of shit. The last Friday of every month you're gonna be there with my thousand bucks, but tonight it's gonna be two grand or I'm going to the cops. Ironical. That's the word I was looking for. It's ironical."

Kenny explained which bench in the park he'd be waiting on, and then he left my office, leaving his odor of Old Spice and BO behind. Gradually it set in that my life was ruined.

I didn't move for a while, and then I called Angie at home and left a message on her machine, canceling our date tonight. I told her that there had been an emergency with my aunt and I had to go to Long Island for the weekend. I didn't know how I'd come up with Kenny's payments.

With the rest of the money Aunt Helen had lent me and the paycheck that had been direct-deposited into my bank account this morning, I could scrape up the money for the first two grand. After that, unless I drained my retirement accounts, I was in trouble. I'd have to live on Kraft macaroni and cheese and Ramen noodles, and I'd probably have to work nights and weekends.

Since I didn't have to meet Kenny until ten and I had no reason to go home, I stayed late at work. When Jeff left for the day, at around six-thirty, he poked his head into my office and said, "I love your work ethic, David. You're showing true commitment to this job. See ya tomorrow."

A couple of people in Production stayed until around seven, and then I had the office to myself; the only sounds were the hum of the air-conditioning system and an occasional horn or siren from Broadway.

I didn't feel like sitting around doing nothing, so I wrote a final draft of my article on Prime Net Solutions. Earlier in the article I'd mentioned how Prime Net had been the major sponsor of a sailing competition, so, continuing with the metaphor, I wrote:

Prime Net has weathered a great storm, and if the company stays on its current course, and market winds remain steady, the future for this DSL firm will be full of blue skies and clear sailing.

When I finished the article, I did some editing, then left my office at about nine-fifteen.

The businessmen who cluttered the midtown streets during the day had been replaced by tourists and teenagers. I went to an ATM, withdrew the rest of the money I needed from my bank account and by taking a cash advance on my Discover card, and then I took the subway downtown.

I arrived at the Avenue A entrance to Tompkins Square Park at five to ten. The park at night didn't seem nearly as spruced up as it did during the day. As I headed along the path toward the middle of the park, I passed groups of seedy-looking guys, obviously drug dealers, huddled around trees or benches. One skinny black guy rushed up to me, walking alongside me, and asked if I was buying. I shrugged him off without saying anything and continued straight ahead.

I passed the circular, courtyard-like area in the middle of the park, and kept going. On the bench where Kenny had said I should meet him, a big, bearded homeless guy was sprawled out with an old baby carriage filled with bottles, cans, and other junk parked in front of him. The guy's head was hanging to the side and his eyes were half-open; he looked dead, but he was probably just sleeping. I sat on the opposite end of the bench and checked the time on my cell phone two minutes to ten.

Two minutes later, Kenny arrived. He was walking along the path, coming from the direction of the Avenue B entrance. I waited until he reached me before I stood up.

"On time, I like that," he said. "This is how I want it to go every time, you get my drift? None of that waiting-around-for-you-to-show-up bullshit."

I'd been planning to give him the money and leave without doing or saying anything, but I hesitated, asking myself if I really wanted to give in to this scumbag. Maybe he was lying about having a will and other pictures put away. Maybe there was another way out.

"What're you waiting for?" he said. "Dig."

I continued staring at him.

"Come on, stop bullshitting around," Kenny said. "I got a whore to fuck tonight and she doesn't like it when I keep her waiting. Come on, just give me the fuckin' money."

"Maybe we should go someplace else," I said, glancing toward the homeless guy.

"What, that fuckin' bum?" Kenny said. "He probably doesn't know what year it is. Just gimme the money so I can get outta here."

The homeless guy stirred, his head jerking a couple of times.

"All right, all right," Kenny said.

He walked along the path, back toward Avenue B, and I followed him. The path was well lit by a small lamppost.

"This way," I said.

I veered off the path, through an opening in the short fence, onto an area of dirt and grass.

"What the fuck?" Kenny said.

I kept walking. Looking over my shoulder slightly, I saw that Kenny was following me. I stopped in a dark area between two trees.

"Are we done walkin' now, Moses?" Kenny said. He was two or three feet away from me. "You better have that fuckin' money, because if you're shittin' me around, I swear, I'm goin' to the cops."

"Who's that?" I said.

When Kenny turned his head I grabbed his throat. I was in an awkward position, too far away to strangle him effectively, but I'd surprised him, which gave me an advantage. I squeezed harder and his neck seemed to be shrinking between my hands, and then he reached up and grabbed my wrists and my grip loosened.

"You fuckin' crazy?" he said in a gargled, muffled voice. "I got the pictures, I got the»

I forced him back against a tree and squeezed harder. I wasn't letting go this time; I'd keep squeezing for as long as I had to. My nails were digging into his throat, and I figured it couldn't take much longer, maybe five or ten more seconds. Then Kenny forced me backward and I stumbled. I tried to grab his throat again, but he tackled me hard to the ground. He tried to pin me down, but I fought back and managed to get up again. He came after me and I grabbed him around the shoulders and got him in a headlock. I remembered ramming Ricky's head against the door, and I wanted to ram Kenny's head into the tree. But the tree was behind me somewhere, and Kenny was fighting hard and wouldn't let me turn him around, so I started twisting his head, trying to break his neck.

"Let go," Kenny said. "You stupid piece of shit. Let»

I twisted his head further, waiting for his neck to break, and then I heard the shot and felt the excruciating pain in my stomach. Kenny was kneeling over me, holding a gun.

"Fuckin' moron," he said. "What the fuck's wrong with you, you dick?"

He reached into my pocket and took the money out of my wallet, and then he stood up all the way and ran.

I tried to go after him, but when I got up onto my knees, I crumpled right back down onto my side. My stomach killed, as if the bullet were still working its way inside me. I felt the warm, wet area where the pain was centered; then I looked at my bloody hands.

I lay still, with my face pressed against the dirt, waiting to die. It was hard to breathe and I was too weak to get up, so I knew it would happen soon. I was very dizzy and I was having flashbacks. I was five years old and Barbara was seven, but she looked younger. We were playing in the snow in Aunt Helen's backyard. We were laughing, running around, throwing snowballs at each other. Then the images started coming faster. We were in Helen's finished basement, thumb-wrestling. We were adults, walking up Broadway and laughing. We were kids, playing on a slide in a park as our parents watched. We were lying in the sun in the Sheep Meadow. We were on campus at Syracuse. We were at our parents' funeral. We were Rollerblading down the steep hill near the Met. We were watching Pretty Woman. We were shopping at Banana Republic. We were walking in the rain along West Eighty-first Street. We were fighting about Jay. We were throwing snowballs at trees. We were laughing in Aunt Helen's basement. We were listening to the Police. We were running around Aunt Helen's backyard. We were thumb-wrestling. We were in a snowstorm. We were My body tingled and there was sudden pressure in my head and throat. I felt numb and weightless, and then, an instant later, I was dead.

A MAN WITH a thick gray mustache and cigarette-stained teeth said, "I saw his eyes open; I saw 'em open."

A woman next to the man was doing something to my stomach. Something was over my face, and my throat killed.