The buzzer sounds and the knockout’s friend has arrived, only it is three friends not one. So now you are dining in company with seven people, one of whom is a murderer, or actually two of whom are murderers, you find out after you’ve all begun tucking into Mr. Kindt’s heavy beef and carrot and shiitake stew.

I have just recently, says the second murderer, by way of introduction, become one.

Job, I say.

I go by Anthony, he says.

No one else makes any introductory statement.

Mr. Kindt, who has been seeing to something in the kitchen, comes and puts his hand on your shoulder and leans close and tells you that although it had never crossed his mind prior to your “kind intervention,” he has given some desultory thought to your offer to help him.

Yeah? you say.

Tonight, my boy, he says, there might be something you could do, or that you might wish to do, and that I would be happy for you to do, if you decide to.

His hand presses into your shoulder and you notice the first murderer looking and smiling at you and you notice Tulip looking at the first murderer and smiling at him.

Does it possibly have anything to do with me murdering anyone? you say.

Yes, Mr. Kindt says. I hope the prospect doesn’t bother you.

Not at all, you say, not sure how else to answer, given the hush you feel surrounding you.

That’s fine, Henry, Mr. Kindt says, and returns to his seat.

Not at all, you say again.

Then the first murderer begins talking about the close connection between the sugar industry and the art world in Europe, and Mr. Kindt is all ears.

The connection is very clear, says the murderer.

I’m sure it is, says Mr. Kindt.

The knockout is talking again too — she has started up a conversation with Tulip and the two other friends. The two friends watch her very closely, their heads making small, quick gestures, and Tulip pours and sips brandy and you, although you are just slightly discomfited by the outcome of your offer to reciprocate Mr. Kindt’s kindness, eat your stew.

It is as if, the murderer says, all the great works were dipped in and coated with sugar …

And the knockout says, and that is how, after the second incident, I repaired my arm …

I have been tempted, at the Munch Museum for instance, though I did not in fact do it, to slip forward, tongue-first, and test the veracity of this proposition …

You can see, if you look closely, that it really was very badly damaged, and that my method was quite effective …

Of course I know I would be disappointed …

In the final analysis, there was no lasting harm …

I find Munch most fascinating, but not for The Scream. I admire The Scream, in fact once I owned a good print, but I have never found it fascinating …

Look, you can still see it …

Etc.

Later, after dinner, you have a chance to speak privately with the knockout.

Wanna come home with me, take a number, she says.

You withdraw.

Job, who goes by Anthony, a.k.a. the second murderer, whom you have not seen at the bar in quite some time, is standing near the window. Dark hair, long, taut muscles. Very handsome.

Hey, you say.

Evening, he says.

You ask him if he minds talking.

As long as it isn’t about my name or about my former place of employment or about anything personal, he says.

So how you got involved in this is out-of-bounds?

He thinks a minute. He shrugs. Tulip’s a friend, he says. She told me about the opening. She introduced me around. I’ve got debts.

And Tulip’s got a lot of friends, you say.

Anthony looks over at Tulip, who is bent over talking to the knockout. They are quite a pair. Your heart executes a perfect backflip and hits the water without a splash.

He turns back to me, one of his eyebrows raised. Next question, he says.

I’m not interviewing you.

You could have fooled the fuck out of me.

O.K., how did your first murder go?

You want me to talk about that?

Talk, I say.

He goes over to the table, takes a piece of stew-soaked bread off his plate, puts some cheese on it, and comes back.

It was fucked, he says, inserting the lion’s portion of the bread into his mouth, chewing then leaning in close. He smells like lemon balm and lavender. There are one or two beads of sweat on his muscular throat. Some skin connected to his jaw twitches like someone is sticking it with a miniature cattle prod. Past his right shoulder, through the window and the black netting, the lights of Tompkins Square bob and glitter. Fucked up. Bizarre. Unpleasant. Messy. Yuck. Pick a word. I didn’t like it at all. And I’ll tell you something else, it wasn’t even supposed to be a murder, it was just supposed to be a warning, a little friendly advice, cease and desist, pursue other avenues, get the fuck out of town. Just ask them.

“Them” is the two friends, two young women, fraternal twins, he notes, whose job, he says, during such jobs, is, when/if necessary, to hold people down. They both stand and step forward. The one with straight, shoulder-length jet-black hair grins and flexes her suddenly impressive arm muscles. The one with straight, shoulder-length pomegranate-colored hair grins, reaches back and snaps the loose material of her pants, and locks the suddenly impressive muscles in her thighs.

I’m not sure I entirely get what you’re saying, you say, not quite sure who you are saying it to.

At this, Tulip steps forward, pulls her hands out of her back pockets, and says, show me how the takedown/immobilizing thing gets done.

A piece of floor is chosen, a table is pushed aside. Mr. Kindt, who has been smothering strawberries in heavy cream in the kitchen, comes in and beams. The first murderer clears his throat and crosses his arms. A silence broken only by a forlorn rattling in the wall and the mued clanking of wind and scaffolding descends upon your company. The fraternal twins nod, then do something and in half a heartbeat Tulip is lying down very still on the carpet smiling and breathing quickly with her arms and legs pinned and a knee pressed against her chest. For effect, you suppose, the first murderer then walks forward, bends over, and gently slaps Tulip’s cheek. They let her go, and you all clap, and then, as if the front door was stage right, the two friends walk out.

So now you are six for cream and strawberries and then four because the knockout is no longer feeling well, she has announced, and you have watched her, arm in arm with Anthony, walk out the door. Instead of being more than slightly discomfited, instead of thinking very actively about Anthony and his distaste for what Mr. Kindt has asked you to do, however, you stand there wishing the two friends had held you down, had looked coldly across your body as they bent over you, had pressed a knee into your chest, so you ask Tulip how it was and she says, quite fascinating and not too painful, and you say, show me, and she says, shhh.

The first murderer is speaking. He is looking at you.

He says, Time which antiquates Antiquities, and hath an art to make dust of all things, hath yet spared these minor Monuments. In vain we hope to be known by open and visible conservatories, when to be unknown was the means of their continuation and obscurity their protection: If they dyed by violent hands, and were thrust into their Urnes, these bones become considerable, and some old Philosophers would honour them, whose souls they conceived most pure, which were thus snatched from their bodies; and to retain a stranger propension unto them whereas they weariedly left a languishing corps, and with fain desires of re-union. If they fell by long and aged decay, yet wrapt up in the bundle of time, they fall into indistinction, and make but one blot with Infants.

While the murderer is talking, Mr. Kindt nods, and says, lovely, and closes his eyes, and you find yourself thinking of someone you once knew, and how she listened to poetry. This person, whom you once knew very well it seemed, listened with her eyes half shut and her small, dark hands curled around a drink at a table lost in the smoke of the bar. You shake your head. You look at Tulip. She is tall, exquisite. Her fingers are long. You think of the knockout. You think, I should have taken a number. You stop thinking. The murderer keeps talking, and your own eyes close, and the room revolves around you, and the murderer says, If we begin to die when we live, and long life be but a prolongation of death; our life is a sad composition, and you open your eyes and the murderer is still looking at you, and you think, the composition is sad, it is very sad, yes, it is sad, says Mr. Kindt, from somewhere far away, and the murderer, in the most tender voice, continues speaking to you.