My body reflexively slouched low in the seat as my free hand groped for the ignition. I forced my fingers away from the keys, and peeked out the window. It wasn’t easy. Washington Clifford scared the hell out of me.

He stood next to the uniform, registering no surprise at whatever the man was saying. I prayed I hadn’t left a trail. Dealing with Clifford officially would be no more pleasant than it had been unofficially. I figured it would only be a matter of time before he went upstairs and I could leave. My body hadn’t hurt for a couple of days, but watching Clifford rock lightly back and forth revived all the bruises he and his mastiff had inflicted. The pain felt so real I looked at my palms expecting blood to spurt, but nothing happened. It was comforting to discover limits to his power.

Clifford didn’t go upstairs. Instead, he walked back to his car, leaned up against it, and stared vacantly ahead. In the far distance I heard the multiple squeals of a siren working an intersection. The sound began to close in. Clifford also seemed to hear it. He pulled out of his reverie, took the light off the roof, and burned rubber as he jackrabbited his car.

Momentarily I wished I could question the cop about Clifford, but sanity prevailed. The sirens became police cars, and suddenly the scene looked a lot more like Quincy. I started my engine and drove toward the Brighton Avenue exit. I had just pulled the car into traffic when I realized what I’d seen—a criminal returning to the scene of the crime.

Just like I knew Clifford was a cop when I first saw him, just like I knew that Starring was connected to the burglaries at 290, I knew that Clifford had murdered Starring. It was easy to picture him blowing Starring’s head onto the wall. The thought piled dread on top of the panic already lodged in my gut. I jerked the car over to the side of the street. I didn’t have time to think. It was all I could do to roll down the window and stick my head out. The horror in the apartment, the fear of Clifford, and the new knowledge that I was mixed up in something that I didn’t understand came pouring out in a bucket of sick. When I stopped throwing up I looked guiltily up and down the block to see if anyone was watching. With my luck I’d run into a meter maid.

My hands were shaking but I got them working well enough to light a cigarette. I inhaled and held my breath to regain some control. I sat there for a couple of moments and finished the smoke. I knew it was time to leave when I relaxed enough to smell the foul odor of my puke wafting through the open window. Nursing the car home like I was sixty-five and the car had 140,000 took some time, but I couldn’t afford more surprises.

I went straight for the alley. If I went through the front Charles or Richard would buttonhole me. Thinking of them reminded me of how the day began, of Lou, only it seemed so much longer than a few hours ago. I didn’t feel much like a squire. I unlocked the door, started inside, and stopped when I remembered the gym bag.

I dropped everything on the kitchen table but didn’t stop moving until I dug out my stash and rolled a fat doobie, returned to the table, and sucked on the joint. After I dumped the records on the table I organized them into neat piles. There were no papers with Dr. James’ name on them. I got up and prowled from window to window, though I didn’t know what I was so anxious about. No one had seen me and I could, if I had to, explain my prints at Starring’s. Couldn’t I? Jesus, I hadn’t shot him.

Suddenly panicked about my gun, I walked quickly to the bedroom. I dropped to my knees, grabbed the strap of the holster, and yanked it toward me. The gun was there, which brought an audible cry of relief. At least I wasn’t being framed.

Framed by whom, for what? I flopped down on my ass and tried to steady my nerves. It was all right to be overwhelmed. This was my first time out of the box. Any more todays and it would be my last.

I grimly strapped the holster on my shoulder. It made me feel safer. Calmer. But I didn’t like it. Guns. Vigilantism. Suspicion. Not the kind of world I’d spent much of my life advocating.

I felt myself get angry. When the mental image of Starring’s wall wriggled in its brainfold I didn’t feel my stomach rise. Only a rotten taste in my mouth and the growlings of starvation.

In the refrigerator I saw the food I had bought in the North End. I stood there with the door ajar, then closed the fridge and turned toward the table covered with office records. I wanted them out of my house, so I postponed eating until I had called Dr. James. While I stood there I checked again to be certain there were no records with Gloria’s letterhead.

I was in deep shit and I didn’t know how I got there. Worse, I didn’t know the way to shore.

I went to the bathroom intending to shower but was reluctant to remove the gun, so I brushed my teeth and rinsed my mouth instead. I didn’t have many memories of my old man. One I did have was watching him rinse his mouth in the morning. He’d make a big production of it, cupping his hands rather than using a glass, and gargling loudly. I looked at myself in the mirror and used a glass. Quietly. The older you get the more appreciative you become of nuances.

When I finished I walked to the phone. On the third ring I was answered with a recorded message informing me that Dr. James was away for a couple of days but I could most certainly leave a message. If it was an absolute emergency I could call the number left on the tape at the end of the message. I grabbed a piece of paper and scribbled the emergency number. I didn’t want to leave a fucking message and it was an absolute emergency.

I had barely finished dialing when I heard a gruff male voice.

“Holmes here. Who is it please?”

“Matt Jacob, Dr. Holmes.”

“Oh, Matthew, please call me Eban. I was just on my way out.”

“This shouldn’t take long. I’m looking for Dr. James. She left this number on her machine.”

“Yes, yes, I know. That was in case any of her clients were in crisis. I really don’t know how to get in touch with her until she calls.”

“Who does?”

“I don’t think anyone. She wanted to be alone for a few days.”

“Bullshit. She may have wanted to get away, but I don’t believe she didn’t leave her number with someone”

“I’m sorry you don’t believe me, but I don’t think I can help you. If you want to leave a message I can pass it along if she calls.”

“Goddamnit, I don’t want to leave a message.” My voice rose a decibel level. “I want to speak to her.”

“I’ll leave your number for her.” He paused then continued, “As I said, I was just on my way out.”

“Listen, motherfucker, I want to speak with her. Stop playing gargoyle. I recovered the stolen records from 290 and we need to talk.”

His voice never changed inflection, nonetheless there was no mistaking his abrupt detachment. “That sounds wonderful, Matt. I’m sure Gloria will be pleased to hear that. I’ll be sure to tell her if she calls.”

“And you’re not guarding the door?”

He chuckled. “You are very stubborn.”

I didn’t find anything amusing. “I’m standing here looking at a bunch of yours.”

“Mine?”

“Records. Your office records.”

He never skipped a beat. “Of course. If you’d like I’d be happy to pick them up. No reason to make you run.”

I wanted to wrap the telephone cord around his neck. If I told him I’d spent the day discovering gory murals he might relent, but I didn’t want to tell him anything, much less beg.

“Fuck you.” I slammed the receiver down so hard I had to check to see if I had cracked it. It was a ‘40s phone that I’d found in a junk store and resurrected. If I had broken it I would have found Holmes and beaten Gloria’s whereabouts out of him. As it was the phone was intact.

I reopened the refrigerator door and remembered standing in front of Starring’s yesterday. That settled the question of cooking and I slammed the door shut. When I called the neighborhood sub shop, the guy swore he’d have the pizza at my door in fifteen minutes. That gave me about forty-five, so I decided to shower and change.

I had just finished strapping the holster over my clean tee shirt when I heard someone rap on the door. “Wait a second,” I called while I fumbled with my wallet to get the money. The delivery was surprisingly quick. It was a relief because I was starved.

I pulled the door with one hand and held the money in the other when suddenly the door flew open and Simon came streaming through. His action pushed me aside and knocked the money from my grasp. I knelt down on the floor to pick it up. It was a good way to ease the panic that hit when the door swung open.

I looked up. “What the fuck are you doing?”

He slammed his hand on the table and glared at me. “That’s my question. What the fuck are you doing?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” I stood up and closed the door.

He didn’t have a chance to answer because there was another loud knock. This time I took the gun out of my holster and waved at Simon to move to the side. I wasn’t going to be caught looking again. At least not today. I grabbed the door handle and yanked it open. I’m glad I had the gun facing down; the pizza boy was scared enough. I was still a dime short and a dollar wide with everything. I reholstered the .38 and paid for the pizza. I gave him a big tip. Then I turned around and placed the pie on the table.

“You eat yet? It’s Greek, but edible.”

“I don’t want to eat.” He didn’t sound any friendlier.

“Suit yourself.” I feigned mellow and sat down to eat. Some of my anxiety showed. The tape on the box took me three rounds. All the while Simon stood, glowered, and breathed. Loudly. I finally got the box open and he began to speak.

“I told you I didn’t mind paying you, I only wanted you to work. ‘Sure I’ll work,’ you said. Look at you. You disappeared again. Only this time you’re fucking dangerous. Who the hell are you imitating? Hunter Thompson?”

I tried to interrupt but he kept ranting, “Are you shooting up now? Or is it the DTs? You can’t even get a goddamn pizza box open. Christ!”

“Wait a minute. That tape was tough.”

“Fuck you and your jokes. I got a wife who is close to a breakdown, a marriage that’s falling apart, and you can’t follow one fucking lead. I’ve been calling regularly and you’ve been too stoned to hear it ring.”

I was getting tired of being thought of as a junkie or a lush. I didn’t think of myself that way. “My dope isn’t that good, Simon. If I’da been here I would have heard the phone. I’m surprised to hear that Fran is doing worse. I was sure things would turn around.”

“Come on, Matt. You haven’t been out of the house for three consecutive hours since the accident. And I’m sorry if I’m not up to date on the substance you’re abusing.”

The pizza looked like an overhead camera shot of open heart surgery. I stuffed the top of the box into the uneaten pie and rose to my feet. “Look, you asshole, I said I was out.”

“Out where? Another pleasure jaunt with Boots? On my dime?”

“Pleasure jaunt? If looking at a head splattered against a naked wall gets you off, I suppose you could call it pleasure. You ever see human brains, Simon? You know what a big fat bullet does to a face? Spend the day with me, asshole. On your fucking dime? Your dime bought me admission to a very ugly death. You’re damn right it’s your dime. That corpse was the kid I’ve been looking for, for you. And before you get self-centered about it, his fucking murder has nothing to do with you. He was into some shit, but it wasn’t yours. Let me tell you again what I been trying to tell you all along. Alive or dead, the kid don’t have nothing to do with your problems. Get it?”

I suddenly ran out of steam. “I’m sorry things aren’t improving with you guys. I truly thought they might.”

“What the hell are you mixed up in?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know what you’re involved with, but you know things were going to improve for me. If what you’re telling me is true, why, goddamnit, did you think anything was going to change?”

“I don’t know. Time, I guess.” I scratched around for something to say. All I felt was fatigue and I wanted him to leave.

He walked over to where I was standing. “Time, my ass. You’re holding out. What the fuck do you know that I don’t? If it isn’t information about this kid, what is it?”

I wanted to escape. I shrugged helplessly and could feel my face flush. Though the heat from both our tempers was gone, the tension in the room was electric. He kept staring and I kept trying to hide. Neither of us moved a muscle.

Suddenly his eyes flashed and I knew he had it figured out.

“You son of a bitch. I don’t believe it.”

I didn’t move. Or say a thing. Or ask what he didn’t believe. I didn’t have to. He looked around the apartment like he had lost something and shook his head. He started to talk, but stopped. He turned away and walked slowly to the door. From the rear he looked like another Willy Loman. Before he got there he turned back toward me and showed his teeth. I suppose it was a grin.

“You could have said it wasn’t so. You know, like Shoeless Joe.”

I looked at him. I didn’t know what to say. Shoeless Joe hadn’t. All I could do was shrug. He turned back toward the door and walked out. I didn’t want him to leave but I didn’t follow. I still had nothing to say. I heard his car squeal out of the alley before I locked the door.

I lit a cigarette and wound up on the couch. I was too exhausted and too miserable to watch TV. I stuffed the cigarette but kept the gun. It made me feel better, despite the delivery boy fiasco. It was too early to sleep but no one told my eyes. Even with my eyes shut I couldn’t shake the image of Simon frantically glancing around the apartment like a trapped animal.

Somehow that image transformed itself into another . . . Simon had my gun and was pointing it at me and Fran who were naked in bed. I kept trying to explain that I wasn’t the one, but he wouldn’t listen. Fran kept telling him that it was all over, but he wouldn’t believe that either. He kept looking at the gun and back at us. Then he put the gun to his own head in front of a blank wall. I knew the way the wall was going to look and I heard myself pleading with him to put the gun down, but he just stared with the same look he’d worn when he left my apartment.

I saw his finger squeeze the trigger and I braced for the explosion. But instead of the roar of the gun I heard the bell of the phone and the picture of Fran, Simon, and myself began to fade, and I was confused about whether I was awake or asleep.

The telephone kept ringing. I shook myself alert and glanced at the clock. It was 3 A.M. and the phone was ringing, but the sound was a relief: I didn’t have to watch Simon paint the wall.

The ring refused to play itself out. I struggled to my feet and padded across the floor and stabbed at the receiver. “It better be good!”

“Excuse me?”

The voice was familiar but I couldn’t place it.

“Who is this?”

“It’s Eban Holmes. I’m sorry to disturb you at this time of morning, but something happened and I think you ought to be involved.”

Although his voice was quiet I could hear the raggedness around the edges. “What’s going on?”

“Gloria was assaulted and her house ransacked.”

I felt my stomach lurch and my hands begin to sweat. “Is she all right?”

“Not really. Nothing fatal or long-term, but serious.” His voice cracked, but he took a deep breath and continued, “Look, I can’t talk about this on the phone. Will you come over to her house? I know this is quite an inconvenience . . .?”

He was winding up to go into a sell. “You don’t have to convince me, Eban. I’ll be there as soon as I can. I take it you’re with her?”

“Yes, yes, of course.” He sounded friendlier now than he had this afternoon.

“Where is it?”

He gave me an address in Brookline. “I’ll be there as soon as possible.”

“Thank you, Matthew. It’s a relief.” “Right.”

I put the phone down and tried to regroup. Despite the change in calendar, yesterday continued. I tried to push the thought of Eban comforting Dr. James from my mind. This really wasn’t the time to pander to weird jealousies. Hell, she had been my shrink until a couple of weeks ago.

I pushed myself toward the bedroom and quickly dressed, gathered my things, and headed into the dark alley for the car. Someone was sleeping by the rear wheel and I was met with a drunken protest. When he saw the gun in my hand he stopped talking and pulled himself to his feet. I slipped the gun back into the holster and climbed into the car. I wasn’t in a coddling mood.