"Nothing she can use against you. Promise."

"Don't be so sure. She's trickier than she looks."

"No she's not," Juan says.

"Listen to you!"

"A dead-lizard popsicle is not grounds for demotion."

"The offense of moral turpitude, my friend, is open to ruthless interpretation. Don't be so naive."

"Well, I think you're wrong about Emma."

I practically yowl with derision.

Juan coolly lathers a bagel slice. "Based on my knowledge of women—which is considerably more current than yours, Jack—I think you're mistaken. Emma's not out to destroy you. It's just that you're a problem in her life right now and she's trying to figure you out."

This is too much. How can I argue about women with a guy who's dating (in addition to my editor) a surgeon, a skater and a cheerleader? I lean across the table and whisper: "She asked me to lunch."

"So? Maybe she's trying to make peace."

"No way. It's gotta be a trap," I say. "You've heard of a Trojan horse. This is Trojan pussy."

Juan has the most impeccable manners of any newspaper writer I've ever met. The bagel is gone and not a single crumb is on the table, not a speck of cream cheese on his cheeks.

"Did you know," he says, "that she never took so much as an aspirin until you started working for her? Now it's two Valiums a day, sometimes more."

"She's in the wrong line of work, Juan. I'm trying to show her the way out." The pill-popping business makes me feel guilty; rotten, in fact. "I don't want to do lunch with her because I've got to keep a distance. For her own sake, I've got to stay surly and unapproachable." Juan smiles skeptically. "Sergeant Tagger's version of tough love?"

"Something like that."

"Naw, you're just scared. Obituary Boy is scared of little ole Emma."

"That's ridiculous."

"Don't worry, Jack, she won't bite," he says drily, "no matter how nicely you ask."

This is getting us nowhere.

"Do me a favor," I say, "don't talk about me anymore when you two are hanging out."

"Okay. But that'll leave us a lot of free time and not much else to do." Juan looks both amused and resigned.

"Oh, come on. You expect me to believe you and Emma still aren't humping like alley cats?"

He shrugs. "Like I said, she's different."

"Gay?"

"Nope."

"Frigid?"

"Don't think so," Juan says.

"Then what?"

"Picky," he says, rising, "or maybe just preoccupied. Thanks for the bagel, Jack, but now I've got to hustle back to the shop—the Dolphins just signed a running back with no felony record and no drug habit. That's big news."

"What should I do about lunch?"

"Put in a good word for your favorite Cuban," Juan says with a wink. "Tell her I'm hung like Secretariat."

When noontime rolls around, I pretend to be stuck on the phone in order to duck Emma's offer of a ride. I tell her to go on ahead and I'll catch up, thinking I can use the extra time to plot strategy. But my thoughts remain jumbled and I set off with no plan.

The restaurant is Mackey's Grille, not one of the usual newsroom hangouts. I'm surprised to find Emma sipping a glass of white wine. Daringly I order an imported beer. We make agonizing small talk until the waiter shows up—Emma asks for the tuna salad and I decide on a steak, medium rare.

Once we're alone again, Emma says: "I had an unexpected visitor the other day. Race Maggad."

"My hero."

"He came to talk about you, Jack."

"Well, I don't want to talk about him. I want to talk about you, Emma—in particular, your toes."

Carefully she sets her wineglass on the table. A flash of pink appears in her cheeks, but she says nothing.

"That afternoon outside your apartment, I couldn't help but notice your toenails. They were all painted up like bright little orange and red gummy bears. Frankly, it was a revelation," I say. "Made me think I've jumped to some unfair conclusions."

"Jack."

"Yes?"

"Why do you do this?" she asks. There's nothing weak or wounded in her voice; her stare is like a laser.

I've got no good explanation for my nettlesome banter. Nerves, maybe. Unease. Self-consciousness. But about what?

This is why I didn't want to be alone with her. This is what I was afraid of.

"It's a brutal occupation we've chosen, Emma, it takes a terrible toll. Look at me," I tell her. "Once upon a time I was tolerable company. I had my charming moments. I was not immune to empathy. Believe it or not, I could sustain healthy relationships with friends, co-workers, lovers. But not anymore—could you pass the banana nut bread?"

Emma says, "Race Maggad thinks you're a dangerous fellow."

"I would give anything to make that true."

"Yet he wants you to be the one who writes Old Man Polk's obituary. He came by the newsroom to tell me personally, to 'assure' me—his word, Jack—that there's no unspoken corporate directive to keep you off the front page."

"Which you know to be horseshit."

"Totally," Emma nods. "That's why I'm confused. And why I asked you out to lunch."

With relish I explain that MacArthur Polk wants me to do his obituary because he knows it enrages Race Maggad III, whom MacArthur Polk hates almost as much as he hated Race Maggad II.

"Why?" Emma asks.

"Have you looked closely at our newspaper lately? Or any of Maggad-Feist's papers? They're all dumbed-down crapola, fluff and gimmicks and graphics. The old man knows he fucked up his legacy by selling out. He's bitter and spiteful and rich enough to play chicken with these bastards."

"He told you all this?" she says uncomfortably.

"In language unfit for publication," I say. "But here's the glorious part, the real reason young Race Maggad took time off from his precious polo practice to visit you. He's determined to make sure MacArthur Polk gets the obituary he wants. Why? Because young Race wants the old man to sell his Maggad-Feist stock back to the company before he dies, or at least leave those instructions for his estate."

Emma stiffens in her seat. "There's been rumors that somebody outside the family is trying to get control of the chain."

"Bingo."

"Who?"

"A couple of foreign outfits. Polk says Maggad is pissing razor blades."

"So what's the old man want from you?"

"Besides a Page One obit that makes him sound like a cross between Ben Bradlee and St. Francis of Assisi, nothing much," I lie smoothly. "Not a damn thing, really."

"We're being used," she says dispiritedly.

"Me more than you, Emma."

"It's basically just two rich guys screwing with each other."

"Basically, yeah," I say.

A gloom settles upon Emma, affecting her normally flawless posture. She understands she's caught up in a squalid little mess that has nothing to do with the practice of honest journalism. The fact I play a crucial role in resolving the situation only deepens her dismay.

"They don't warn you about this stuff in college," she says.

"Who'd believe it, anyway?"

"Right. Not me." Emma stares emptily at her salad.

"On the bright side," I say, "it might be another five years before Old Man Polk finally kicks the bucket. Both of us could be long gone by then."

She raises her eyes. "What?"

"To bigger and better things." A necessary elaboration.

"But in the meantime, you'll have his obit finished and in the can. Please, Jack?"

"Okay. You win."

Damn, I can't help it. I feel sorry for the woman.

We eat in affable silence. Afterwards we order coffee and Emma calls for the check; lunch is on the newspaper. She asks about the Jimmy Stoma story, and I tell her it's tough sledding though I'm making progress. I know better than to mention my scuffle with Jimmy's keyboard player, but I can't pass up the chance to recount the widow's balcony blow job.