Lotty slid my clothes off with practiced medical fingers. “A little late to be worrying about that, my dear—it’s all you’ve been doing this last month.”

I made a face—maybe I would have been better off with the sergeant after all.

Lotty pulled the covers over me. I was asleep before she’d turned out the light, falling deep into dreams of mad boat journeys, of scaling cliffs while being attacked by eagles, of Lotty waiting at the top for me saying, “A little late to be worrying, isn’t it, Vic?”

When I woke at one the next afternoon I was unrefreshed. I lay for a bit in a drowsy lethargy, stiff both mentally and physically. I wanted to lie there indefinitely, to drift to sleep until Lotty came home and took care of me. The last few weeks had taken from me any ability to find pleasure in what I did for a living. Or indeed any reason for continuing it.

If I had been able to follow my mother’s dreams, I’d be my generation’s Geraldine Farrar, sharing intimate moments across a concert stage with James Levine. I tried imagining what it would be like, to be talented and pampered and wealthy. If someone like Gustav Humboldt came after me, I’d have my press agent whip up a few paragraphs for the Times and call the police superintendent—who would be my lover—to knock him down a few pegs.

And when I was worn out some other person would stagger to the bathroom on badly swollen feet to try to clear her head under a cold-water tap. She would make my phone calls, run my errands, suffer hideous hardships for me. If I had time, I would thank her graciously.

In the absence of this selfless Bunter, I called my answering service myself. Mr. Contreras had phoned once. Murray Ryerson had left seven messages, each progressively more emphatic. I didn’t want to talk to him. Not ever. But since I’d have to eventually, I might as well get it over with. I found him steaming at the city desk.

“I’ve had it with you, Warshawski. You cannot get help from the press without delivering your side of the bargain. This fight in South Chicago is old news. The electronic guys already have it. I helped you out on the understanding you’d give me an exclusive.”

“Stick it in your ear,” I said nastily. “You did sweet nothing for me on this case. You took my leads and gave me back zero. I beat you to the finish line and now you’re pissed. The only reason I’m calling at all is to keep the communications lines open for the future, because believe me, I’m not too interested in talking to you in the present.”

Murray started to roar back, but his newspaper instincts won out. He put on the brakes and began asking questions. I thought about describing my midnight boat ride up the misty, acrid Calumet, or the utter fatigue of soul I felt after talking to Curtis Chigwell. But I didn’t want to justify myself to Murray Ryerson. Instead I gave him everything I’d told the police, along with a vivid description of the fight around the solvent vats. He wanted me to join a photographer down at the Xerxes plant to show where I’d stood and got indignant at my refusal.