I drove along the shore until the street turned inland by the border of Sunset Park, then continued down through the desolate industrial stretch of Second Avenue where, a few hours earlier, Italians from North Williamsburgh and Bensonhurst, and local Dominicans and Puerto Ricans, got together for their only social interaction besides drug-dealing: the nightly drag races. There was no sign of any action by twilight, but the piles of beer cans and other debris along the curb made the place look like some weird urban Woodstock.

  At Hamilton Avenue I turned right and followed Third to Atlantic, through the Wycoff and Gowanus projects, and took the streets onto the bridge. It was a little past peak sunrise, but the view going over the Brooklyn Bridge was spectacular, and I didn’t feel bad about not being able to sit still at the shore.

  I came off the bridge directly onto the FDR Drive and exited at Houston Street. I was in the East Village in five minutes and parked across from Kathy Popovich’s house about ninety seconds later. I must have known I was heading there, but I hadn’t really let myself think about it. I realized that it was the second time that I’d gone to see her when I was feeling restless, uncomfortable with myself. Was this a natural instinct, to seek out someone smart, interesting, and understanding, or was I running away, looking to escape? A good argument could be made either way. I locked up the car and walked a block west to First Avenue for another cup of coffee. It was barely seven o’clock, and I figured I couldn’t try to roust her for at least an hour. I knew she had classes later, but I didn’t know if she had a job or if she’d been out on a date. I didn’t want to consider that there might be someone up there with her.

  I’d bought a newspaper to look at while I had my coffee, but as was often the case, I could summon absolutely no interest in the vast majority of the stories. If there was a lurid murder, or a little girl kidnapped, or an especially spectacular robbery had been pulled off somewhere, I’d be intrigued. But the notion that anyone could get excited about the economy of Mexico, or North Korean students rioting, was pretty much beyond me. In fact, I frequently thought that interest in world news was like listening to modern jazz—an Emperor’s new clothes thing, where everyone pretends to understand and no one has the balls to say it’s just noise.

  I thought about the last time I’d seen Kathy, and how I figured that would be the end of it. I still couldn’t see it going anywhere, but there was little point in denying that I was at least a bit hung-up on her. That may have been exacerbated by how fucked-up the rest of my life had been lately, but I didn’t think so. I would have been drawn to her even under comparatively normal circumstances. I’d known girls like her in the past, but there hadn’t been any substance behind their screwball artist facades. I almost got the impression that Kathy played down her intelligence.

  At eight o’clock I decided to stop writing her resume in my head before I intimidated myself right back over the bridge. I’d have the rest of my life to hide under the covers, and probably would. Now was the time to be charming.

  I started to head for her building, but thought better of it and walked back to a phone booth on First. She picked up on the fourth ring, sounding like I’d awakened her. I wasn’t off to a sterling start. I had to give her my name twice before it registered.

  “Mike,” she said, “Jesus Christ. What time is it?”

  “Eight o’clock. Did I call too early?”

  “Too early for what? Are you all right? You’re never at school anymore, and I haven’t heard from you since you practically ran out of here last week. Now you call in the middle of the night.”

  This wasn’t good. I found myself backpedaling from jump. Thank God I hadn’t just rung the bell. “I’m sorry I’m disturbing you so early,” I said. “I forget that everyone doesn’t keep to the same schedule as me. I’ll call you at a more reasonable hour.”

  She started to agree, then hesitated. “Wait,” she said. “Wait a minute. It doesn’t matter. I’m awake now anyway. I’m not going back to sleep. What’s up?”

  “Well...” I suddenly wished she’d let me get off the phone and call her back some other time. I felt like I was under pressure to make this compelling. “Nothing’s up, really. I just wanted to talk to you. You told me to keep in touch.”

  “Uh-huh. Great sense of timing. Are you on a pay phone?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re sure that nothing’s wrong?”

  “Yeah,” I said, “I’m fine. Look, I’m sorry about the hour. Sometimes I act first and think later. I can let you rest and call later.”

  “Mike, I doubt that you ever act without thinking first. Where are you?”

  “I’m in Manhattan. I had an early run at work, and I figured I’d call you before I headed back.”

  “Are you near here?” she asked.

  “On your corner.”

  “Really. That’s wonderful. I haven’t actually been stalked since I moved to New York, and I was starting to think there was something wrong with me.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve been busy or I would have been here sooner, but it’s going to be a very passive stalking. I’ll be polite when I jump out from between parked cars.”

  “I’m sure. If you want to come up, ring the bell and I’ll buzz you in. We’ll have some coffee. But I warn you—you’re about to see me first thing in the morning. It will be the scariest moment of your life.” She laughed and hung up.

  “If only you knew,” I said to the dial tone.

  I figured that Kathy first thing in the morning actually wouldn’t be an awful sight at all, though her building—in fact the whole neighborhood, even this early—was a quaint spin through hell. I wasn’t sure if the stench was actually stronger in her hall, or if I was just more sensitive to it in the morning. On the second-floor landing I passed a bum sleeping off some nightmarish bargain-basement hangover. By the time I reached the fourth floor, I felt like joining him for a nap.

  When Kathy opened the door my suspicions were confirmed. She didn’t quite look perfect, but not that far off. She wore jeans, and a baggy t-shirt that I was sure she used as a nightshirt. She looked pleasantly disheveled—no makeup, jeans hastily pulled on—but she’d combed her hair. She was barefoot, and between that and the faded blue denim, she looked like a different person. Like the one I’d gotten a glimpse of the other night. The one who didn’t always dress in black. I wondered if this Kathy lived inside the other one, and how much of her I’d been allowed to see. How much more there might be yet to discover. The thought that she might put up fronts to hide behind was very appealing to me. It made me feel closer to her.

  “It’s good to see you,” I said.

  She studied me in the doorway. “You’d be a terrible stalker,” she said. “You’re wheezing too loudly. People would hear you a mile away. Perhaps you should take better care of yourself.”

  “Perhaps you should invite me in before my feelings are hurt and I abandon the stalking trade entirely.”

  “Heaven forbid,” she said. “Come in.”

  Kathy turned and walked into the apartment, leaving me to follow her. I thought again about how comfortably attractive she looked, and how she hadn’t been awake very long. Gina, by contrast, was one of those high maintenance girls who was never off-duty and could only look stunning after hours of work.

  Whatever Kathy’s sleeping arrangements had been, everything was neatly put away, and the sofa was just a sofa. I noticed again how old-fashioned the place looked, more strikingly so in the light of day. The sunlight that streamed in every window gave the apartment a yellowed, faded look. I didn’t find it at all depressing. In fact, I thought it was warm, almost homey. I’d probably be pushing my luck if I asked Kathy to bake some cookies.

  “Make yourself comfortable,” she said from the kitchen area. She was filling a coffeepot at the sink.

  I sat on the couch and picked up a flier from the coffee table. It was just one side of a single page that had been crudely mimeographed. It featured a black-and-white photo of a nude woman facing the camera and glaring defiantly. One foot was in what looked like a pail of water; the other was in a very high, spike-heeled pump. Her hands were at her sides, in fists, and one was holding the end of an exposed electrical wire. Written across her breasts in lipstick or light marker was the phrase, “Of course it hurts.” The photo was captioned “Forever Victims,” and under the picture, in slightly smaller print: “An Evening of In-Your-Face-Angst with Melissa Livingstone.” There was a small note at the bottom of the page listing three or four “guerrilla theater” locations and dates. One of them was last night.

  “Are you familiar with her?” Kathy asked, walking over with two empty white china mugs. When she placed them on the table, she scooped up two clear glass cups and saucers that I hadn’t noticed until she moved them.

  I felt that tug in my gut again and the instant hot flush of jealousy. In the space of a few seconds I thought about who she’d had coffee with, where they’d gone before that, how long she’d allowed him to stay, whether they’d slept together, and why the fuck he’d gotten a cup and saucer while I was having a plain chipped mug like you’d give an encyclopedia salesman.

  I took a few deep breaths and was smart enough not to speak until I got it together. You have no goddamn claim on this girl, I said over and over to myself. Don’t screw up now.

  “I’m not familiar with her at all,” I said. “I was just trying to figure out if she sings, paints, or just sets herself on fire.”

  “She’s a performance artist.”

  “So it’s the setting-yourself-on-fire thing.”

  “How very open-minded,” Kathy said. “Actually, she was pretty bad. I mean, I think art should be provocative, but she doesn’t have much going for her once you get beyond the shock. But I’ve seen a number of performance artists recently whose pieces were well-done and interesting.” “Does she perform naked?” I asked, looking at the flier again.

  “Some of the time. Last night a couple of people sort of heckled her for a few minutes. She screamed at them to go back to New Jersey.”

  “Oh good,” I said. “Someone else from Kansas telling people they’re stupid because they live six miles from here.”

  “You weren’t even there. You’re not from New Jersey. Is there anything you aren’t defensive about?”

  I thought for a moment. “No,” I said.

  She smiled. “It’s good that you’re aware of it.”

  Kathy went back over to the stove and retrieved the coffeepot. She sat with me and talked for a while about trivial happenings in and out of classes at school. I’d been trying to come up with a plausible story for when she would begin with the real questions, but nothing credible was coming to me. I wondered if a version of the injured dog story from my father’s lawyer would fly. Kathy must have read my mind.

  “I’m running out of mundane things to talk about,” she said. “And I get the feeling you’re dreading that I’ll ask you something. It’s making me very tense. You called me at eight o’clock and woke me up. You’re sitting on my couch having coffee. I’d really like to know what’s up with you.”

  “I’m not quite ready to talk about it,” I said.

  “It’s my couch,” she said. “My coffee. It was my sleep.”

  “I know.” I turned my head and looked out the window. Across the street was an abandoned building with sheets of tin over the windows. Someone had painted a half-drawn shade on the top half and a flower in a pot on the bottom, as though it sat on the sill. A meaningless gesture in terms of how the building looked, but I thought it was nice. If this was my neighborhood, and I was old, I wondered if I’d go around doing something like that. “I’m going to need a few days,” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The last couple of weeks have been very—I don’t know—rough, I guess. A lot of changes. A lot of weird shit. I think it’s over now. But I need a little time to let the dust settle and make sure that everything is all right. If you can bear with me, I’ll tell you what I can soon.”

  “A lot of people go through changes,” she said. “It’s not the end of the world, even though it always seems like it at the time. If you’re thinking about leaving school, maybe you should put off a decision like that until,” she shrugged, “as you say, the dust settles.”

  “A lot of people go through changes,” I said. “They have a hard time at school, or a teacher has it in for them, or their boss does. Or their parents get divorced. If it was like that I would have told you already. I’m not blowing you off. Give me a few days and ask me whatever you want.”

  “Even about girlfriends?”

  “Even about boyfriends. Even about livestock.”

  “I always suspected that was what it was like late at night out on the prairies of Brooklyn. Okay, you can be mysterious for now. But can you tell me why you’re really here this morning?”

  “I’m not sure myself. I felt like I needed to see you. Right away.”

  “I see,” she said. “Was there some deep spiritual reason for this, or were the livestock just busy?”

  “Both,” I said. “I swear I don’t know. I like you; I like your company. I also think you’re extremely attractive. But right this minute? Beats the hell out of me. Maybe I see you as my salvation.”

  “Then you’re in much more trouble than I suspected,” she said, as she rose from the couch and went to the kitchen. When she was seated again and had refilled her cup she looked at her watch. “My alarm would be going off just about now if you hadn’t called. I don’t give myself much downtime, because I grab all the sleep I can. What I’m saying is that I’ll be throwing you out soon.”

  “Sure,” I said. “No problem. I did barge in on you. So how soon should I come back? An hour? Two?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I haven’t thought about it.”

  “How about tonight?”

  “I don’t know. No. I have plans tonight.”

  “A date?”

  “A friend. Dinner.”

  “I could meet you after dinner. Desert. Coffee. Drinks.”

  “You’re pushing,” she said. “I don’t know what time will be convenient. Or if tonight is good at all. Besides, you don’t have a really good track record. You didn’t show up for the first date, and left in the middle of the second.”

  “I understand how you feel, but from my perspective that puts me a date and a half behind where I should be. I’m trying to regain lost ground.”

  “Starting tonight?”

  “Well, starting in ten minutes was what I was thinking, but I can be flexible.”

  Kathy looked like she couldn’t decide whether to be annoyed or amused. That ambivalence was better than I expected and more than I knew I deserved, so I practiced keeping my mouth shut and hoped I looked sincere. She glanced at her watch again. “Are you familiar with Bradley’s? It’s a jazz bar on University Place.”

  “No,” I said. “But I’m sure I can find it.”

  “Okay. Do you want to meet me there at ten tonight?”

  “I’d love to.”

  “Good,” she said. “Now get out. If I don’t start to get myself together soon I’m going to feel rushed and hassled all day.”

  I drained the last of my coffee and stood. I sensed that I was in the middle of one of those moments in life that I would look back on later, wondering why I hadn’t left well enough alone. I decided to try that this time. Kathy walked me to the door, and I apologized about three more times for waking her up. She gave me a brief kiss at the doorway.

  “When I finally figure out who you are,” she said, “you’d better be worth it.”

  “Maybe the mystery is intriguing,” I offered.

  “The mystery,” she said as she closed the door, “is a pain in the ass.”

  I’d been a little worried about someone fucking with my car on Kathy’s block, but when I stepped out onto the street I was depressed to see how well it blended in with its surroundings. I drove away before anyone had a chance to make the same observation about me.

  My father was out when I got home. It was still early and I figured he was making his rounds. As I sat in the apartment alone, the malaise I’d been able to shrug off for a while settled in on me again.

  The short time I had spent with Kathy felt like a vacation, or what I’d always assumed a vacation would feel like. The longest trip I’d ever taken with my family had been a three-day weekend at a beach house on Montauk, back when we first learned my mother was sick. It hadn’t been very restful, but it was all my father could swing. He made good money with the numbers, but there was no such thing as a day off. I sometimes thought that he’d set his life up like that—tied himself to the neighborhood so there would be no danger of being lured away. I wondered for the first time if maybe I hadn’t been doing the same thing when I accepted the job with Tony.

  It was something that I’d seen all my life, and had been consciously aware of since I was about ten. I’d always told myself that I was too smart to get involved in any of it, even on as low and stable a level as my father had. It had seemed to me that hooking up with the wiseguys was like becoming an actor. About one percent makes it big and everybody else hangs around doing menial embarrassing jobs waiting for the break that never comes. And as with acting, there was never any lack of enthusiastic wannabees. I used to think my friends and classmates were unique, but I knew better now. Everything worked today the way it had when I was sixteen, and, I assumed, when my father was sixteen. It probably worked the same way five hundred years ago when there were Indians hanging out on the corner where the fruit store is.

  Around junior or senior year in high school, the first couple of guys drop out. Most get full-time jobs. The video store, a supermarket, or driving a tow truck. One or two just hang around. They begin dressing a little older than their age. A guy who’s eighteen and starts wearing slacks and a sports jacket to hang out in the candy store sort of stands out. It was, I finally realized, a ritual not unlike shaping-up down at the Fulton fish market, where guys stand around all night with hooks slung over their shoulders until some vendor or driver is shorthanded enough to call them over. They can usually pick up seventy-five dollars for a night’s work, and go home with a couple of pounds of nice fish.