I waited for my heart to stop throbbing and for my breathing to return to normal, and then I glanced at the clock on the night table. It was 4:58, meaning I'd been asleep for only about twenty minutes. The light in the bedroom was still on, and the door was still closed. Rebecca was probably in the living room, sleeping on the couch, or maybe she'd gone to a friend's apartment or, better yet, a boyfriend's. Hopefully she'd move out by later today and I'd never see her again.

I turned out the light and tried to go back to sleep, but I was too wound up. I kept thinking about Ricky's body, lying there against the garbage can. Anybody who'd passed by until now had probably assumed it was just another strung-out junkie, but as the morning went on there would be more people on the streets, and eventually someone would realize that Ricky was dead and call the cops. Then the cops would go talk to Charlotte, and I had to count on her to keep her mouth shut. I didn't think she'd turn me in on purpose, but if the cops started putting pressure on her, she could blurt out my name. Or what if Charlotte's next-door neighbor told the cops he saw a guy in Charlotte's apartment? Charlotte would have to think fast and make up some story, and I knew I couldn't count on that.

I lay on my back, my mind spinning. I wished I could call Barbara, or go over to her place. She would've told me exactly what to do.

"I have a surprise for you," I said.

It was late one Saturday night. Barbara had been working long hours at her job, promoting a new IPO, and I'd been working hard too, having returned that afternoon from a business trip to San Francisco. I went to a video store on Columbus and rented the DVD of Barbara's favorite movie, Pretty Woman, and bought a container of her favorite Ben amp; Jerry's flavor, Chunky Monkey, then went to her place on Eighty-fourth Street.

"It's not a good time," she said into the intercom.

"Come on, buzz me up," I said. "I've got Chunky Monkey and Pretty Woman. It doesn't get any better than that."

"I'll call you tomorrow," she said.

I remained in the vestibule, suddenly getting a bad feeling, making up stories to myself. Maybe someone was robbing her apartment, tying her up, about to rape her.

I rang the buzzer again.

"Buzz me up, Barb."

"Go away."

"Buzz me up," I insisted.

A few seconds passed, and then the buzzer sounded. I went up to her apartment, and she talked to me with the door open a crack, with the chain on.

"Is everything okay?" I said.

"I have someone here."

"Who?"

"Just someone."

"Let me in."

Then the door closed. I heard Barbara saying, "No, don't, come on," and then the door opened all the way and Jay was standing there with that slicked back hair and that fake tan.

"Your sister said she didn't want to see you," Jay said. "Can't you get the message?"

"Stop it," Barbara said to him.

"I thought you two broke up," I said to Barbara.

"We got back together," Barbara said.

"When?" I said.

"It's none of your business," Jay said. "Why don't you just get the hell out of here?

"Don't talk to him like that»

"Shut up," Jay said to Barbara; then he said to me, "Your sister's sick of you. She doesn't want you coming by here anymore."

"I never said that," Barbara said.

"Shut up," Jay said to Barbara. Then he said to me, "Why don't you get the hell out of here before you get hurt?"

"You okay?" I asked Barbara.

"I told you to go," Jay said.

"I'm talking to my sister," I said.

Jay pushed me.

"Stop it," Barbara said.

"Your sister wants you to leave," Jay said.

"Jay!" Barbara shouted.

"You deaf?" Jay pushed me again, almost knocking me down, and then I went after him. He was taller than me and stronger, but I didn't let up. I tackled him, punching him in the face till his nose was gushing blood and there was blood all over my fists and he was squirming on the floor, trying to get up.

"Get out of here!" Barbara screamed at me. "Go!"

I turned over onto my side and punched the bed as hard as I could.

I lay awake for a long time, sweating and agitated, until grayish-blue light started filtering into the room through the blinds. Then I watched the ceiling brighten it was after six already and I was expecting the phone to ring at any moment, or the police to show up, banging on the door. I'd given up on trying to sleep, but I stayed in bed until eight o'clock anyway. I'd been planning to take the day off to get some rest, but I wasn't getting any, and I decided it might be a good idea to go into work. When the police investigated, it would be better to show that I was going about my normal, everyday life.

I left the bedroom, on my way to shower, when I decided to check the living room to see if Rebecca was there. Sure enough, she had crashed on the couch, still in the clothes she'd been wearing last night. I hoped she was planning to move out today, although I realized it didn't matter what she did if I wound up in jail.

Showering didn't relax me at all. Afterward I shaved sloppily, cutting myself in several places. Looking in the mirror, I appeared, appropriately, as if I'd been through hell. My lower lip was still swollen although not as badly as yesterday and my eyes were bloodshot with dark circles underneath.

Riding downtown on the crowded train, I felt like it could have been any morning. People's pissed-off faces were inches apart, everyone trying to avoid eye contact, and when the one-legged, homeless ex-vet with AIDS came through the car, pushing through on his crutches, rattling his cupful of change, everyone groaned and muttered curses.

But instead of getting annoyed or depressed about my commute, I enjoyed every second of it. I knew if I wound up in jail I'd spend years missing shitty mornings just like this one.

When I got to my building I had a scare when I saw two cops waiting in front. My first instinct was to turn around and run, but then I realized I'd seen the cops in the area before, and they were just on their normal beat. I walked by them and headed into the building through the revolving door, moving quickly because a guy was turning the door fast behind me. In the elevator, I imagined some guy in Alphabet City saying to his friend right now, "Hey, I think that guy over there's dead," and his friend saying, "No, he's not." But the first guy would insist, and they'd take a closer look, and the friend would say, "Holy shit, you're right," and that would get the ball rolling. The police would question Charlotte and her next-door neighbor, and it wouldn't be long before they questioned me. They could already be on their way over.

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."