The kitchen is embarrassingly cramped, unsuitable for a life-or-death struggle. We roll around the linoleum like a couple of drunken circus bears until, by blind luck, my left hand comes to rest on the as-yet-unthawed Colonel Tom. I resume whaling at the bald guy with a manic resolve—if he is Cleo's neckless bodyguard, a gun will be close at hand. No sense in holding back.

Groaning, the intruder shields himself with one arm and begins punching robotically with the other; an effective technique, it turns out. A blow catches me flush on the tip of my nose, the same nose earlier tenderized by Emma, and I black out from the pain.

Honestly I didn't expect to wake up. I expected to be shot dead, "execution-style" (as we're fond of saying in the news biz). But I awaken alive and alone, curled in a puddle of blood so bounteous that it cannot be entirely my own. Crimson bootprints mark the intruder's wobbly path from the kitchen to the living room and out the front door.

Gingerly I strip off my sticky clothes and head for the shower; every square inch of me stings or throbs, but at least the bleeding has stopped. Toweling off, I notice a stranger with a misshapen face scowling from the mirror.

One advantage to living the spartan life, it's easy to clean up after a looting. In thirty minutes the place is put back together, and nothing is missing except my laptop. Stored on the hard drive were a couple of canned obits—a railroad tycoon and some retired opera soprano—but that's no big deal; I'd already wired electronic copies to my terminal in the newsroom.

The most unsavory chore is disposing of Colonel Tom, who was soundly pulped in the altercation. Snugly I wrap his cold, scaly form in an old bedsheet and lob it from the balcony. The bundle tumbles into a Dumpster, four stories below, where it lands with a muted thwock.Instantly I regret the toss, for there's a sturdy knock on the door and I find myself unarmed and defenseless. The knocking persists, and eventually a flat male voice identifies itself as an authority figure.

Cops!

Neighbors, none of whom have ever shown an interest in my personal affairs, apparently heard the commotion in my kitchen and alerted the police. I open the front door to see not one but two men of similar age and stature, neither in uniform. I'm poised to slam the door when one of them flashes a badge.

"Detective Hill," he says. "And this is Detective Goldman."

Obviously I appear thoroughly puzzled, because Detective Hill adds: "We're from Homicide, Mr. Tagger."

Numbly I step back, my arms falling slack at my sides. Apparently I've killed a man with a frozen lizard.

"It was self-defense!" I protest. "He broke in while I was sleeping ... "

The cops exchange perplexed glances. The talker, Hill, asks what in the name of Jesus Christ I'm babbling about.

"The dead guy! The one who busted into my place."

Hill peers over my shoulder, scoping out the tidiness of my modest living quarters. "Mr. Burns broke into this apartment? Tonight?"

"You're damn right he ... who?"

"John Dillinger Burns," he says. "Otherwise known as Jay."

"No! No, this guy was bald," I blabber, "it wasn't Jay Burns. I knowJay Burns. No way."

"Yeah, that woulda been some nifty trick," says Detective Goldman, breaking his silence, "since we just saw Mr. Burns laid out at the county morgue."

"He's been dead since early this morning," Detective Hill adds informatively. "What would you know about that, Mr. Tagger?"

"Not a damn thing." My voice is a dry croak.

"Really?" Hill is holding something inches in front of my eyes, something pinched between his thumb and forefinger. It's a business card from the Union-Register.My name is printed on it.

"Burns had this in his pocket," Detective Hill explains, "when his body was found."

"Now, why would that be?" his partner inquires.

"And what happened to your face, Mr. Tagger?" Hill asks.

Me, I don't panic.

"Officers," I say, "I wish to report a burglary."

15

Emma's couch is too short for my legs.

She tugs down the sheet to cover my feet and fits a pillow under my head. She informs me I've suffered a mild concussion, a diagnosis based on the fact I got dizzy, vomited and fainted on her doorstep. She tells me she went to nursing school for two years before switching to journalism, and I say she would have made an outstanding nurse. She appraises my rubescent schnozz guiltily, so I assure her that somebody else punched me harder than she did.

It's one in the morning and Radiohead is playing on Emma's stereo, a neat surprise.

In her wire-rimmed reading glasses she sits cross-legged in an armchair, the calico cat on her lap. She's wearing tennis socklets so I can't scope out her toes. I squeeze my eyelids shut and wish for this murderous headache to abate. In the meantime I'm telling Emma about my scuffle aboard the Rio Riowith Jay Burns, who seven hours later was found dead behind a tackle shop on the Pelican Causeway. A bait truck loaded with finger mullet backed up over the ex-Slut Puppy, whose ponytailed gourd had been resting inopportunely beneath the vehicle's right rear wheel. How his head had gotten there was the question that brought detectives Hill and Goldman to my apartment. Hill believed that Jay Burns, being clinically intoxicated, probably passed out in that fateful location. Goldman, however, speculated that an assailant might have clobbered Jay Burns and purposely placed him beneath the truck. The medical examiner offered no insight; so pulverized was the keyboardist's skull that it was impossible to discern if he'd been bludgeoned prior to being run over.

Emma is pleased to hear how I cooperated with the detectives, recounting my visit to the boat (though omitting the substance of my questions, and Jay's tantrum) and providing the precise times of my arrival and departure from the marina. Both Hill and Goldman seemed to buy the idea that I was interviewing Burns for a posthumous newspaper profile of his best friend, the late James Bradley Stomarti.

"Then you're not a suspect," Emma says.

"Try to sound more relieved."

"The guy who broke into your apartment, what do you think he was after?"

"Who knows. My Chagalls?"

"Jack, I'm not the one knocking on doors at midnight."

"Yes, well, you aremy editor. I felt you should be notified of what happened."

A feeble lie. The fact is, I'm not sure why I came to Emma's apartment. I don't clearly recall driving here. Gazing at the varnished pine beams of her ceiling, I hear myself say: "I had nowhere else to go."

Cat in arms, she leaves the room. Moments later she returns with ice cubes wrapped in a washcloth, which she lays across my eyes and forehead.

"Is that too cold?" she asks.

"Why won't you sleep with Juan? Everybody sleeps with Juan."

"Do you?"

"I'm talking about the ladies, Emma. Is it because he's a sports-writer?"

"No, it's because he's your best friend."

"Juan is a gentleman. He never talks about his love life."

"Then how do you know we haven't slept together?"

"I pried it out of him."

"Really," says Emma. "Why?"

I peek from under the washcloth to see if she's miffed.

"You're my boss, he's my friend," I say. "You two get serious and it's bound to affect my pathetic little universe. That's the only reason I cared if you and he were—"

"Having intercourse?"

"What is this, ninth-grade biology?"

"Fucking, then," Emma says pertly. "Is that better?"

I sit up, pressing my knuckles to my ears to keep the brains from leaking out. "Don't worry, I didn't ask Juan for the juicy details. You got any Excedrin?"

Emma brings me three aspirins and a glass of water.