“You’re hard to please,” I said. “One joint’s too quiet and the other’s too noisy.”

“I know, I’m worse than Goldilocks.”

“There’s a phone,” I said. “Let me try that number again.” I did, and nobody answered, and this time I didn’t get my quarter back, either. I hit the side of the phone a couple of times with the heel of my hand, the way you do, and it held onto my quarter, the way it does.

“Dammit,” I said. “I hate when that happens.”

“Who’d you call?”

“The Gilmartins.”

“They’re at the theater, Bern.”

“I know. The final curtain’s not until ten thirty-eight.”

“You really did research this, didn’t you?”

“Well, it wasn’t all that tricky. I went to the play myself, remember? So all I had to do was look at my watch when it was over.”

“So why are you trying to reach them? Am I missing something here, Bern? You decided not to break into their apartment, remember?”

I nodded and lowered my eyes to gaze at the pavement, as if I expected to find my quarter there. “That’s why I’ve been calling,” I said.

“I don’t get it.”

“As soon as they’re home,” I said, “I’ll be able to relax, because I won’t be in any danger of acting on impulse. And as long as I’m with somebody, having a meal or a drink or a cup of coffee, I’m out of harm’s way. That’s why I made the date with Patience in the first place. I figured I’d be with her until they were home from the theater, and then I could go home myself.”

“Unless you got lucky.”

“If I just get through the night without committing a felony, that’s as lucky as I want to get. I thought I’d make sure by having a drink after work, but I made a little too sure and got drunk, and you had to break the date for me. Which I appreciate, don’t get me wrong, because I was in no condition to see her, but now it’s”—I checked my watch—“not quite ten and the play doesn’t end for another forty minutes and God knows what they’ll do afterward. Suppose they go out for a late supper? They might not get home for hours.”

“You poor guy.” She put a hand on my arm. “You’re really scared, aren’t you?”

“I’m making a big deal out of nothing,” I said, “but I guess you could say I’m experiencing a little anxiety.”

“So walk me home,” she said. “You can have a drink or a cup of coffee and watch a little TV. You can try the Gilmartins every five minutes if you want, and you won’t need a quarter. If they make a late night of it you can spend the night on the sofa. How does that sound?”

“It sounds wonderful,” I said. “Thank God you’re a lesbian.”

“Huh?”

“Because you’re the best friend anybody ever had, and if you were straight we’d get married, and that would ruin everything.”

“It generally does,” she said. “C’mon, Bern. Let’s go home.”

At a quarter to twelve I picked up Carolyn’s phone for the umpteenth time—or was it the zillionth? I poked the redial button and listened to half a dozen rings before hanging up.

“I can’t believe they don’t have an answering machine,” I said.

“Maybe they had one,” she suggested, “until a burglar broke in and stole it. Are you about ready to bed down for the night, Bern? Because I’m starting to fade myself.”

“I’m afraid the coffee worked too well.”

“You’re wired, huh?”

“Sort of. But you go ahead. I’ll just sit here in the dark.”

She gave me a look, then turned her attention back to the television set, where Charlie Rose was asking thoughtful, probing questions of an earnest chap who looked terribly knowledgeable and seriously constipated. I paid what attention I could, tearing myself away every five minutes to hit the redial button, and the fourth or fifth time I did this someone finally answered the phone. It was a man, and he said, “Hello?”

“Mr. Gilmartin?”

“Yes?”

“Well, thank God,” I said. “I was starting to worry about you.”

“Who is this?”

“Just someone with your best interests at heart. Look, you’re home now, and that’s what counts. How was the play?”

There was a sharp intake of breath. Then, “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“I’ve got twelve-oh-nine, but I’ve been running a minute or so fast lately. Hey, lighten up, Marty. I just wanted to wish you and Edna the best. You get some sleep now, okay?”

I hung up and turned to see Carolyn shaking her head at me. “So I got carried away,” I said. “So I had a little harmless fun at Marty G’s expense. Well, I figured he owed me one. Look what I went through just to keep him from getting burgled tonight.”

“I see what you mean. Are you going, Bern? You don’t have to, you can still stay over.”

I thought about it. It was late, and if I stayed the night at Carolyn’s West Village apartment I could walk to work in the morning. But I decided I wanted a change of clothes in the morning and my own bed that night.

Fateful decision, that.

I made a second fateful decision when a couple of drunken tourists beat me to a cab on Hudson Street. The hell with it, I decided, and I walked over to Sheridan Square and caught the subway. I rode uptown to Seventy-second Street, bought a copy of tomorrow’s Times, and waited for the light to change so I could go home and read it.

“Excuse me…”

I turned toward the voice and was looking at a slender, dark-haired woman with a heart-shaped face. She had small regular features and a complexion out of a soap ad, and she was wearing a dark business suit and a red beret. She looked terrific, and my first thought was that I was going to be profoundly disappointed when she turned out to be selling flowers for the Reverend Moon.

“I hate to bother you,” she said, “but you live here in the neighborhood, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so. You looked familiar to me, and I’m pretty sure I’ve seen you around. I feel ridiculous saying this, but I just got off a bus and I was on my way to my apartment, and I had the feeling someone was stalking me. That sounds melodramatic now that I hear myself saying it, but that’s what it felt like. And I live so close it seems silly to take a cab, and…”

“Would you like me to walk you home?”

“Would you? Unless it’s completely out of your way. I’m at Seventy-fourth and West End.”

“I’m on West End, too.”

“Oh, that’s great!”

“At Seventy-first Street.”

“Oh,” she said. “That means you’d be walking two blocks completely out of your way, and then two blocks back. That’s an extra four blocks. No, I can’t ask you to do that.”

“Of course you can. People have asked far more of me than that.”

“Are you sure? There’s a cab now. Why don’t I just take a cab?”

“To go two blocks? Come on.”

“Well, if you were to walk me to West End,” she said, “and then, when we did go our separate ways, I’d just have those two short blocks on my own, and—”

“Stop it,” I said. “I’ll walk you all the way home. I really don’t mind.”

Fateful, fateful.

She didn’t usually get home this late, I learned. She’d had a class, and it ran a little later than usual, and then she’d gone out for coffee with a couple of her classmates, and the discussion got so spirited it had been easy to lose track of the time.

I asked what the discussion was about.

“Everything,” she said. “We started out talking about one of the scenes we’d done earlier, and then we got onto the ethical implications of the Method, and then, oh, one thing led to another.”

It usually does. “You’re an actress.”

“Well, it’s an acting class,” she said. “And maybe I’m an actress, but we don’t know that yet. Which is one of the reasons I’m taking the class. To find out.”

“And in the meantime—”

“I’m a lawyer. Except that’s not quite true, either. What I really am is a paralegal, but I’m studying to become a lawyer. I’m taking classes on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays at Manhattan Law School.”