We had stopped at the corner of Third and Seventh. Cars and cabs swept past. I saw the woman with the green hair and piercings heading toward Cooper Union with her dog.

That’s quite a story, I said.

It is, isn’t it, Henry, Mr. Kindt said.

Hell of a story, I thought as I sat there the night of the murder, feeling uneasy, watching the rain fall.

Yes, I said.

And now you have entered more completely into our intricacy, Mr. Kindt said.

I’m more completely complicit, I said.

Murder me well, Henry, Mr. Kindt said.

Then, though it wasn’t time yet, I got up and walked out the door.

Not sure what to do, I stuffed my hands in my pockets, crossed Seventh, and went into the park. After the thick, smoky air of the bar, the cold rain felt good, and I set off at a brisk pace. Tompkins Square Park — where I seem to have spent so much time over the course of these pages — is made up of a series of meandering asphalt paths that lead into open areas and wider lanes and surround fenced-off enclosures that contain a surprising number of trees and plants. Until not too many years ago, when they were forcibly evicted, the park was a haven for the homeless, but now on a rainy night you can pretty much walk the curved paths alone, seeing only the occasional cop or fellow stroller or worn-out drunks huddled together under beat-up umbrellas. It is a dreamy, slightly otherworldly place at night, and from time to time it plays host to vendors of odd comestibles, so I was not too surprised to round a bend and come upon a sweet-potato vendor set up beneath a lavender umbrella in the glow of one of the park lamps. As I passed, the woman behind the glistening, steaming metal cart called out “sweet potatoes, warm sweet potatoes” in a high, clear voice and almost before I knew what I was doing I had handed over a dollar and accepted one of the foil-wrapped potatoes, pulled it open, and taken a bite. The potato was incredibly sweet and moist and for a moment I stood under the heavy foliage of an oak tree, chewing, swallowing, and drifting — out over the city, the beautiful dirty rivers, the drenched islands, the roiled ocean.

But the cold rain and the calories I was consuming were waking me up, so it’s not surprising, delicious, unlooked-for sweet potato or not, that my mind turned wearily, uneasily, back to love and intricacy and complicity, to silver bowls, dreams of Dutch polders, a look lifted directly from Rembrandt’s painting, wacko stuff about life in the Netherlands in the seventeenth century, fake and real murders, gangsteresque behavior in restaurants, sextants, anatomy books, bottled plants, organs, Tulip, Cornelius, a death by drowning in the dark waters of Lake Otsego fifty years ago, and my dear friend, a confessed killer, lucid one moment, clearly mad as a fucking hatter, rocking back and forth at the center of his machine of mist and falsification, the next.

The rain hit the top of my head and the sugar from the potato smashed into my system and I thought about murders and Mr. Kindt taking care of someone, some accountant, and about Mel the Hat and his peephole, and about how, as he had said, nothing was ever 100 percent fake, there was always some real there. It was this principle, I thought, that gave some validity to Mr. Kindt’s belief that somehow or other submitting himself to a particularly rigorous version of the murder procedure would help to alleviate a guilt spurred by the aftershocks of a violation that reached deep into the past. And there was something there, something in Mr. Kindt’s wish to be mock murdered, maybe something just tangentially related that I hadn’t grasped, something that involved me. Involved Cornelius and Co., including Tulip. Involved Mr. Kindt running out after me to relate, in overwhelming detail, a story he had declined to address fifteen minutes before. Involved all the murders I had committed around the East Village. Involved the instruction — who had it originated with? — that I had to strike him hard.

I was getting somewhere.

In fact, I am suddenly feeling just audacious enough to propose that if I had had a little more time that night in the rain with a sweet potato in my hand, I might actually have sliced through enough of my own mist to reach the conclusion that both Anthony and The Hat had been right, and that at the very least it would be better, much better, not to walk through Mr. Kindt’s door. But about twenty feet after I had that realization, my promising train of thought was cut short by a punch in the mouth.

I don’t know if you’ve ever been punched right in the middle of your face while you are walking fairly briskly through a dark, rain-spattered park with your head turned down and all your attention turned elsewhere. If you have, you will not be at all surprised to know that the blow came very close to knocking me out, and that I ended up on my back with my arms lying useless at my sides. I registered their immobility almost immediately, because my first instinct was to check my teeth to see if they were still there, and I couldn’t. I moved my tongue, which I must have bitten, around inconclusively, then opened my mouth a little, then gave up.

They’re still there, if that’s what you’re wondering, a voice said.

What? I said.

Your teeth — if that is what you’re wondering, they’re still there.

Of course they’re still there, another voice said.

Why of course? I said.

Because I wasn’t trying to knock them out, that’s why. They would be out if I wanted them out.

Well, thanks for not wanting that, I said.

A face came into my field of vision then left it.

Another face did the same.

This isn’t in the scenario, I said.

It’s in the margins, written in lemon juice, one of the contortionists said.

Safety provision, the other said.

Where’s Cornelius? I said.

Keep you from thinking too much.

Keep you from thinking too much in too much detail and fucking things up.

Cornelius wouldn’t like that.

Neither would Mr. Kindt.

That’s quite a pair.

Yeah, they go way back.

This last remark made them both laugh. Unpleasantly.

I put my head down on the pavement and shut my eyes.

You know, I said, in my quietest voice, I had you two all wrong. I thought you were the nice ones. I mean, I figured Cornelius was sketchy, maybe even sinister, and that the knockout wasn’t nice, although she was nice, of course, I mean obviously, to look at, but that the two of you were the nicest. I guess I was wrong. I guess probably none of you are nice. Not even Tulip. Tulip, who found me. Who brought me in. Who does things for Mr. Kindt. Maybe they aren’t nice things. Maybe she’s got her own grudge. Maybe she’s related to the Aris Kindt who died swimming. How old is she anyway? Maybe the Aris Kindt who died swimming was her father. Or maybe it’s a grudge against me. Maybe she knew my dead aunt. Maybe my dead aunt was dear to her. I’ll ask her about it later. She’ll talk. No, she won’t. I’ll go ask The Hat. He seems to have answers. Who the fuck is he? Why exactly did Cornelius and Mr. Kindt decide to tell me about Lake Otsego? It’s a closed system. No outside perspective. Nothing to confirm. No one to confirm it. Even The Hat — did Cornelius hire him? Did Mr. Kindt? To what end? What do I mean? But the two of you. Maybe you would be nice enough to explain this to me. I mean, my miscomprehension on such a basic point: you aren’t nice. Do you think it’s important? Tell me about yourselves. Where do you come from? Flesh yourselves out a little. What are your names? Who is everyone? What the fuck is going on?

Both faces were now back in my field of vision. They were very wet and very red and very, very close.