After a while she took a deep breath, put her hands on her knees, and looked up.

They tell me you’re in trouble, boy.

It’s not that bad, Aunt Lulu.

That’s a lie, boy.

I’m not lying to you, Aunt Lulu. They’re doctors — they exaggerate. I’m getting good help. I’ve got friends here. It’s under control.

I watched her take this in, turn it around once or twice, then forget it.

I’m leaving now, boy. I just came to tell you I’m not paying for you to live like a dog and do more bad things and lie in a hospital bed reading books.

Good-bye, Aunt Lulu, I said.

Good-bye, boy, she said. She smacked me again, not so hard this time. Then stood and walked out.

FIFTEEN

My ears still ringing, I put the note in my pocket and walked across the park to Mr. Kindt’s. On my way, I stopped to watch some kids slugging it out over access to an open swing. It was a pretty good fight, as far as fights involving small kids go — there were actually some punches thrown and a couple of kicks — and I was a little sorry when a tall woman with a large mouth and hands the size of coffee cakes came over and broke it up. For a second it occurred to me to say something to her, to tell her to relax a little, let the kids fight, a swing, for God’s sake, was worth fighting about, but then I realized I was about to pass out. I went over to a bench and sat very still, then leaned over and put my head between my knees, then, when I felt a little better, sat up and sneezed.

You’ve got blood all over your face and shirt, said a green-haired, well-pierced woman walking by with a three-legged wrinkle-faced dog.

I know, I just got murdered, I said.

She looked at me, the golden hoop in her right eyebrow rising significantly.

What’s your dog’s name? I said.

He doesn’t have a name.

Does he bite?

Yes, he probably does.

Look, I’m in an interesting line of work. If I had a business card, I’d give you one, I said.

Yes, she said. I bet you would.

Can I have your number?

No.

Out of the corner of my eye I could see a woman and a young girl tilting and gently shaking what I realized was a kind of trap when I saw two mice fall out of it onto the soft dirt next to an evergreen.

What you see in this city, I said.

Every day, the woman with the three-legged dog said.

Then I left the park and went to Mr. Kindt’s.

Oh, let’s get you cleaned up, he said.

When we were out of the bathroom and sitting over cups of Lapsang souchong in the living room, he asked me how the meeting had gone. I said it had gone well. My head felt like someone had started a lobotomy on it, and I felt like throwing up, but otherwise it had been very pleasant and extremely informative.

I don’t know her terribly well myself, but Cornelius recommends her highly, Mr. Kindt said.

I can see why he does.

I’ve had the privilege of seeing her at her work. She’s very good. She is able to lull her victims into acquiescence merely, it seems, by speaking to them.

She’s bald, I said.

I watched the corners of Mr. Kindt’s mouth rise then fall, but just slightly. We sipped at our tea. Mr. Kindt asked me if, in light of the meeting, that is, he said, in light of being insulted by a beautifully, if artificially, proportioned young woman and getting shot at by same with a blank plus paint pellet in the face, I was interested in committing further murders. I told him that I was on again that very night.

Excellent, he said, wincing a little. I asked him what was wrong. He said Tulip had been “drawing” on him. That the drawings — there were more than one of them — were rather large. That I could see them when they were finished, that they didn’t look like much just now.

Do you think it’s going to be the knockout again? Because I’d love to take another crack at killing her.

The knockout? he said. That’s actually quite funny and rather appropriate, isn’t it, my boy? he said. I am told that she very much enjoys applying the odd blunt object to people’s nerve endings when she invites them into unconsciousness at the end of her sessions.

That’s a different kind of knockout than the one I was talking about, I said.

Of course, Henry, he said.

He then said that, even in the case of trial runs, of little tests, as mine had been, Cornelius observed a strict one-murder-per-victim rule. Cornelius was not interested in fetishists. They tended to be somewhat too public about their pastimes.

He told me he murdered you.

I suppose that in a manner of speaking that is true. One could also argue that it was a collaborative effort, a joint exertion. That we both sped me into the other world. But no matter.

How long has he been doing this?

In its current incarnation, it’s a fairly recent development, at least as these things go. My murder, however, the one that planted the seed, occurred a very long time ago.

When you were still living in Cooperstown?

Yes. It must have been.

Mr. Kindt’s voice drifted off a little at the end of this and we sat in a silence that lasted until Mr. Kindt let out a soft belch then said excuse me.

Certainly, I said. Then I asked if Cornelius ever got up to anything besides show murders.

Mr. Kindt laughed, then stopped laughing, then let his thin little lips resolve into the position they had held earlier.

Because Anthony said last night he was just supposed to deliver a warning, but that it turned into a murder.

Mr. Kindt’s lips didn’t move.

What kind of murder was it — the kind I’m getting involved with and just had done to me, or the other kind? I asked.

Ask me something else, dear boy, he said.

It didn’t have anything to do with those guys we bumped into at the Indian restaurant that time, did it?

Mr. Kindt looked confused for a moment, then burst out laughing and said, really, Henry! What sort of a person do you take me for?

I told him, in so many words, that I took him for a friend.

That’s absolutely right. I am your friend. Now enough of such silliness. We’ve already established that, with my help, Cornelius murdered me long ago and, as you can see, I’m still very much here.

He bent his arm, held it up, and gestured for me to feel it. I did. It was surprisingly firm and definitely there.

Wow, I said.

Mr. Kindt said that although his general state of health was catastrophic and needed constant surveillance, there had been some slight holdover from his younger days.

When you were a champion swimmer.

I used to slice the water like a serrated spoon.

Is there anything else?

I’m not following you, dear boy.

I don’t know. Friends tell each other things.

Like what?

Like who they are.

But you already know.

I’d love to hear it again.

I am Aris Kindt. I am a businessman. I am Dutch though it has been many years since I have visited those flat lands. I have lived in the city almost longer than I can remember. I keep interesting company. I am old and have health issues. My passions vary. I love art. I love a good bit of fish. I am not against meat. And I am not against helping young ne’er-do-wells who have lost their way and might otherwise end up in the proverbial ditch.

He crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair.

I’m sorry for that last bit — that was unnecessary, he said.

I deserved it, I said. You’ve been very generous. I think it’s just this headache. And all this talk about murder.

Drink some more tea. I’m sure the aspirin will begin doing its job any minute. Aspirin is a wonderful drug. We tend to forget just how effective it is.

I took another drink.

Mr. Kindt apologized again for his comment. I told him again that it was all right, that the tone of my voice had risen without my being aware of it and that I had probably sounded shrill. Mr. Kindt said that I hadn’t sounded shrill, only a touch insistent, and he had always had a hard time with insistence, although he both appreciated and respected it and possessed more than a drop of it himself. It was only natural that I would have questions.