"I'm glad you enjoyed it," I said.

"The writing's very straightforward," Jeff said. "It has none of those awkward words and overly complicated sentences that your other articles have had."

"Peter always adds that crap," I said. "I mean, if you check out some of the articles I wrote for the Journal»

"Look," Jeff said, ignoring me. "I know we've had our differences in the past, David, but the past is just that the past. What I'm trying to say is, how about we put our differences behind us and move on with a clean slate?"

"Okay," I said with no idea what he was getting at.

"Great," he said. "So how'd you like to be my new associate editor?"

I thought he was joking. He'd never even hinted about a promotion before, and besides, associate editor was Peter's position.

"You're kidding," I said.

"Why would I kid about that?"

"What about Peter?"

"We've been getting too many complaints about him lately. We were all discussing it at the management meeting this morning, and we think it's time to make a switch at the very least to boost the morale at the magazine, which, if you haven't noticed, has been pretty dismal lately.

Peter doesn't know about this yet, so this is between you and me.

Gossip gets around this office faster than the flu, and I don't want Peter to find out about it third hand. I just wanted to get a feel for whether you're up for the job before I take the next step. So? Are you?"

I heard a siren on Broadway outside Jeff's window I wondered if it was the cops coming to get me.

"Sure," I said.

"You sound noncommittal."

"No, I'm very committal," I said. "The job sounds great."

"You sure you're just feeling under the weather? Because I get the feeling you don't want this job."

"I want it," I said.

"Great, then it's yours."

Jeff reached across to shake my hand, then yanked his back before it touched mine.

"Germs," he said.

I stayed in Jeff's office for the next half an hour or so, discussing the new job and my new responsibilities. My new salary would be fifty-two a year a far cry from what I used to make at the Journal, but it was still a ten-grand-a-year raise. At another time in my life, even a couple of days ago, I would've been excited about the promotion, and would've started plotting using it as a stepping-stone toward getting a job at Forbes or Business Week Now, with my arrest looming, it was hard to really give a shit.

Surprisingly, twelve-thirty came and the police still hadn't shown.

Angie came by my cubicle, smiling she'd reapplied her lipstick and asked if I was ready for lunch.

"You betcha," I said, in a better mood than I should've been in.

We went around the corner to the deli with the good salad bar on Fiftieth Street. Eating our combinations of California rolls and oily salads, I told Angie about my promotion.

"That's unbelievable," she said.

"It's a secret," I said, "so don't tell anybody."

"My lips are sealed." She mimed locking her lips and throwing away the key. "It's so funny we were just talking about Peter."

"I know."

"It's gonna be so great not having that loser editing my stories anymore."

"You never know," I said. "I might start inserting some indefatigablys myself."

"As long you don't put in any terriblys."

We laughed and I impulsively reached over and held her hand, caressing it with my thumb. She looked at me intensely for a few seconds, then pulled her hand away.

"What about your girlfriend?"

"She's not really my girlfriend."

"But I thought you live together?" She looked confused.

"Yeah, but it's ending," I said. "Besides, it was never very serious to begin with. I know you've never met her, but she's this young club girl. I mean, you should hear the way she talks. She has this up speak you know, making everything sound like a question, and she has this weird Southern accent. It's hard to describe, but it's really funny to listen to trust me."

I was smiling, trying to get Angie on my side, the way she was always on my side when we made fun of Peter or Jeff, but she remained very serious.

"I don't get it," she said. "If you don't like her, why did you start dating her to begin with?"

I wished I'd kept my mouth shut.

"There are some good things about her, of course," I said, trying to do damage control. "I mean, she's fun to be with and I like a lot of other things about her, but we're not really compatible."

"So if you're not compatible, why are you still living together?"

"Good question." I was smiling, trying to make light of the situation.

"Like I said, we're in the process of breaking up. I mean, we're going to be broken up very soon."

"But you're still together."

"Kind of."

She was squinting, looking confused, and I didn't know why I'd opened my big mouth about any of this.

"I've been trying to get her to move out," I said, "but it's been kind of difficult."

"Difficult how?"

"Well, I've asked her to move out, but she kind of has attachment issues, I guess. She had a difficult childhood, so maybe that has something to do with it, or maybe… Anyway, she just doesn't get that it's over. I mean, the other night, when we talked about it, she started throwing vases at me."

"What do you mean she threw vases at you?"

"She was drunk," I said. "I mean, she was just out of it, that's all, and she kind of lost her temper for a second and picked up some things from the mantle and threw them. It was nothing, really… So how's your salad?"

"Did she hit you with the vases?" Angie asked.

"No, of course not," I said. "The hitting came later."

I smiled, but she didn't.

"Is that how you hurt your lip?"

"What? No."

"It sounds like you're in an abusive relationship."

"Whoa, come on," I said, "don't you think you're exaggerating just a little bit?"

"What if I told you my boyfriend was hitting me and throwing vases at me? Wouldn't you say that was abusive?"

"It's not the same thing."

"Why not?"

"Because it just isn't," I said, getting frustrated.

"Sorry, I guess it's really none of my business," Angie said as she speared a cherry tomato with her fork. "I just want you to know that, as an outsider looking in, it sounds like your girlfriend has some serious problems."

"Look, I know she has problems," I said. "Why do you think I'm breaking up with her?"

We continued eating in silence. After a few minutes I broke the ice and said, "So how's your new article going?"

Our conversation was uncomfortable for a while, but then we settled down and things seemed more normal again.

At around one o'clock we headed back toward our office building. As we turned the corner onto Broadway, reality set in as I realized that Rebecca wasn't my real problem. My real problem was lying against that garbage can in Alphabet City.

"What's wrong?" Angie asked, concerned.

"Nothing," I said. "Why?"

Back at the office I walked Angie to her cubicle. The way she said,

"See ya later," I could tell she was still upset about our conversation over lunch, and I felt frustrated too that there was suddenly so much awkwardness between us.

At my desk, I was more anxious than I had been in the morning. Time seemed to go by even slower as I waited to hear the commotion of the police arriving. But the hours crept by, and at five o'clock the police still hadn't come. I had no idea what was going on. The body had to have been discovered by now. Maybe the police hadn't had a chance to talk to Charlotte yet, or maybe she'd handled herself better than I'd expected. Maybe the plan was going to work out after all.

As I was getting ready to leave, Angie came by and asked if I wanted to walk out of the building with her. I told her to go ahead without me, that I had some last-minute stuff to take care of, and that I'd see her tomorrow. I wanted to leave with her hell, I wanted to do more than that with her but I realized that holding her hand had been a big mistake, and I didn't want to lead her on more than I already had. If I lucked out and the police never bothered investigating Ricky's death, and I finally got Rebecca to move out of my apartment, then I'd attempt to start a normal relationship with Angie. Until then, I'd try to keep some distance between us.