“Apparently, or so the cop told me, Bill had to punch a guy because he was some kind of peeping Tom,” Fenton continued, almost blithely. “But I guess these are two isolated incidents.”

Todd’s knuckles were as white as ivory.

“Could we,” he said with what he hoped was calm restraint, “get back to me?”

“I’m sorry, I thought we were talking about you,” said Fenton. “Concerning the incident you witnessed, I mean.”

Todd put the receiver carefully down on the side table. He drew back his fist and punched the wall, hard enough to make a small crater in it. He paused to let the pain sink in and then picked up the receiver again.

“Sorry, Milstead, I thought I lost you for a moment there,” said Fenton.

“I’m here,” said Todd through gritted teeth.

“Look,” said Fenton, tired of the weak sport and wanting to throw his catch back in now, “unless you have documentary evidence of your wife being with another man, this news of yours will have no effect whatsoever on your divorce settlement. And even then… the courts tend to favor a no-fault divorce these days, you know.”

“They tend to favor the bitch!” shouted Todd, and slammed the receiver down. The mouthpiece flew off and hit him in the eye.

“Motherfucker!” he shouted and slammed the entire phone into the wall again and again, hearing it ding senselessly before it smashed. Todd dropped it and slumped to the floor, head in hands.

There was no escape. That damn cow was going to take him for everything he had. He was going to be the loser he’d always secretly feared he might be. No friends, no money, no luck: this would be the Todd Milstead story from now on. Unless he could get the book published. Visions of dollar bills literally danced before Todd’s eyes: like a cartoon character, he imagined himself signing book deals, receiving huge checks, being fellated by book groupies, and generally achieving undreamed-of levels of fame.

For a moment, he imagined himself being interviewed.

“Where do you get your ideas from?” asked the buxom young interviewer.

“Where does anyone get their ideas from?” replied Todd, no longer slumped against a wall but sitting relaxed in a TV studio.“Experience, practice, imagination…”

“And theft,” said the buxom interviewer. “Do you remember this voice?”

Todd looked around. A voice filled the air. A bubbling, drunk voice.

“He stole ’em!” said the voice of Billy Cairns. “He took ’em from a book!”

Gasps in the studio audience as Billy walked in, carrying a heavy sack.

“He stole the whole thing,” shouted Billy as he opened the bag and, from it, took copies of a big thick book, which he threw into the audience. “He stole it from Jake Turner!”

A book hit Todd in the chest. ALL MY COLORS by JAKE TURNER it said.