“Well, you go on upstairs and take a hot bath, doll. By the time you’ve done that and had a chance to rest, I’ll have some dinner ready. I have me a nice steak I’ve been saving for sometime special, and that’s what you need when you’re feeling this low. A little red meat, get your blood flowing again, and life’ll look a whole lot better to you.”

“Thanks,” I said. “It’s very good of you, but I really don’t—”

“Nope. You think you want to be alone, but believe me, cookie, that’s the worst thing for you when you’re feeling like this. Her royal highness and I’ll get you fed, and then if you’re ready to be on your own again, you say the word and we’ll be back down here on the double.”

I just couldn’t bring myself to bring the cloud of hurt to his faded brown eyes by insisting on being alone. Cursing myself for my soft heart, I trudged up the stairs to my apartment. Despite my neighbor’s dire words, I headed straight for the Black Label bottle, kicking off my pumps and pulling off my panty hose while I unscrewed the cap. I drank from the bottle, a long swallow that sent a glow of warmth to my weary shoulders.

Filling a glass, I took it into the bathroom with me. I dumped my funeral suit on the floor and climbed into the tub. By the time Mr. Contreras showed up with the steak, I was a little drunk and much more relaxed than I’d have thought possible a half hour before.

He had already had dinner; he brought his grappa bottle to keep me company while I ate. After a few bites I grudgingly admitted—only to myself—that he’d been right about the food: life did start to look better. The steak was done to a turn, crisply brown on the outside, red within. He’d cooked up some pan fries with garlic and brought his conscientious nod to my diet, a plate of lettuce. He was a good plain cook, self-taught as a hobby during his widowhood—he’d never done more in the kitchen than fetch beer when his wife was still alive.

I was finishing off the fries with the rest of the meat juice when the phone rang. I handed Peppy the bone she’d been eyeing—not begging for, just keeping an eye on in case someone broke in and tried to steal it—and went over to the piano, where I’d left the living-room extension.

“Warshawski?” It was a man’s voice, cold and harsh. Not one I knew.

“Yes.”

“Maybe it’s time you butted out of South Chicago, Warshawski. You don’t live there anymore, you don’t have any business there.”

I wished I hadn’t had the third whiskey and desperately tried assembling my scrambled brain. “And you do?” I asked insolently.

He ignored me. “I hear you can swim pretty good, Warshawski. But the swimmer hasn’t been born that can float through a swamp.”