We walked down to the park along the Hudson and kept going because the cold was breezy and insistent.

Cullen likes to talk and often interrupts without thinking. It can be exasperating, so I told her to hear me out completely before asking questions or making any comments. It was a long story and would be hard enough to tell anyway. "It's a little bit like Rondua, Cullen."

She put her arm in mine and pulled tight. "Give me a kiss before you start. A good one." She put her hand behind my head and pulled that to her too. Her kiss was strong and loving.

"That's the first time you've ever kissed me like that."

She shrugged and gestured with her head to keep walking. "I can't help it, you look so sad and tired. Are you going to tell me now or keep making ground rules?"

"Now. Remember the day Phil died and I came over to your place?"

We walked for two hours and I talked straight through. Although she'd promised not to interrupt, she did. We got cold and went into a diner for coffee. Stomachs warm, we went back outside and walked down Broadway. I saw a dog that reminded me of the dog in the ocean. I saw a girl who looked vaguely like Pinsleepe. We passed a used bookstore that had – copies of Bones of the Moon in the window. Next door was a place that sold the same chocolate-chip cookies Dominic Scanlan was eating the day we met Blow Dry. It was a walk where everything reminded me of something else and thus helped make my description to Cullen sharper and more intricate.

Nevertheless, it's impossible to tell someone about extraordinary or scarifying experiences in your life after they're over. It's like describing a smell. I once went to a lecture by a writer who was famous for having written about exotic places. After the lecture, someone asked why he always went to these places before writing about them. Couldn't he just use his imagination? "No, because if you don't go, you won't catch the invisible smell of the place, and that's its most important feature." The same is true about the high or low moments of your life; invisible smells permeate these important times, and if other people are not there to smell them too they can never really know or understand.

It was frustrating and enervating to try and explain, but I wanted to hear what Cullen, more than anyone else, had to say about my last days. She was my best friend now that Phil was dead. Because we would never be lovers, I could listen to the angular, interesting logic of a woman while generally disregarding the sexy sword of Damocles that usually hangs over such conversations.

When I was finished we were once again having coffee at a Chock Full O' Nuts somewhere in the fifties. Cullen was eating a donut and had powdered sugar all over her upper lip. When she started to speak, a white fall of it dusted her jacket. I reached over and rubbed it into the leather.

"Did you ever listen to Bulgarian music? While I was with Mae this afternoon it came on the radio, and I listened to the whole show. Very strange and mysterious, sad, but I kind of loved it too. Something in you recognizes it, you know?

"What are we talking about here, Weber? Angels and devils: they're Bulgarian music. You have contact with them and it throws you off, but you also recognize them. Not as themselves but as part of you. I think any person who has visions –"

"I didn't have a vision, Cullen. Wyatt was with me when I saw Pinsleepe."

"And you were with me when I saw Rondua. Let me finish what I was going to say. What you saw and experienced is Bulgarian music. At first you pulled back and made a sour face because you never heard anything like that before, but then you started tapping your foot and thinking, This stuff is all right! That was me with Rondua. But do you remember the last words of my book? They're the only ones I can still quote because I still feel that way: 'It's hard convincing yourself that where you are at the moment is your home, and it's not always where your heart is. Sometimes I win and sometimes not.'

"You should've seen your face while you were talking, my friend. Whatever is going on now fascinates you. It's everything you love – ghosts, movies, helping other people. You've just never heard it played like that before and it sounds fucking weird.

"You want me to tell you something practical? Okay, get back there fast and see what you can do to help. I think the angel wants you to make a scene that so derides horror and evil that people will only laugh when they see it shown like that in a movie. Sounds like, whatever Phil did, he made bad look good – too good – and that was what let all the cats out of the bag.

"But I think you're right. I never found any of those Midnight films very scary. They creep up on you and make all the right howls and screeches, but in the end they're just so-so.

"Did Finky Linky ever tell you about his popcorn meter for films? No? It's really true. You go to the movies and buy a box of popcorn, doesn't matter what size. Even a candy bar. If the movie is great, you get so caught up in it you forget about the food and just hold it in your lap. If the film is only good you eat about half or a third. Et cetera. You know how much popcorn I ate when I saw your last film? Not one piece, so help me God. Ask Danny. You know what I ate when I saw the last Midnight? Two boxes of Raisinets, my own and most of Danny's. You know why I remember? Because when he discovered I'd taken most of his, we had a little fight in the theater and I had to go get him some more. Terrific film, huh? You eat two boxes of candy and have a fight in –"

"And you know what I say to that fuckin' shit, Larry? I say, Fuck you!"

A few seats down, a little Puerto Rican guy was sticking his finger in the chest of the big black man next to him.

"Well, eat my dick, Carlos, 'cause that's the way it is!"

This got louder, but what else is new in New York? I was in the midst of turning back to Cullen when the first plate crashed. Turning again, I saw the two men shoving each other. Then little Carlos fell off his stool and, getting up, punched big Larry in the face. Everyone nearby got up fast and moved away, including Cullen, who danced to the other side of the counter.

"Weber! Get over here!"

"I've still got my coffee."

I sat there and sipped while David and Goliath tried to pound each other. Carlos was little, but Larry kept missing.

"Weber!"

A saucer landed about a foot away, so I picked up my cup and walked over to join Cullen. When I got there she frowned and called me a macho ass.

A policeman came in and things calmed right down. When the – of them had left, Cullen blew up. "You were just going to sit there and drink that coffee! Two guys slugging it out a foot away from you but you don't move? I've seen you do things like this – times, Weber. It's not impressive and it's not courageous; it's stupid."

"I wasn't trying to impress you, Cullen. There wasn't any reason to move."

"That's why you and my husband get along so well: Neither of you know the difference between being brave and being dumb."

The meeting at my apartment that night was good. I told the two men and one woman what Midnight Kills was about and what direction we wanted to take with the scenes we did. Nothing else.

One asked why couldn't we just splice what was already there together and release it? No one ever paid attention to plot in a horror film anyway.

Because it was Strayhorn's last work and we wanted to do everything we could to save it.

Another smiled and said, from the sound of it, Wyatt and I didn't know what we wanted to do in our scenes. I agreed and told them it was extremely important they think very hard about what they thought real evil was and how – or if – it could be portrayed. Was cancer real evil? Was the pain and despair they suffered from the disease evil? I read them the dictionary definition – "something that brings sorrow, distress, or calamity" – and asked if that satisfied their own visions of what it was. Unanimously they said no. I asked them to tell evil stories; to talk about evil people they knew and why they thought they were evil; to tell about evil things they'd done.