I blinked at the woman, then dug my wallet out of my pocket and found a twenty. “I want to make a phone call,” I said. “From the booth right there on the corner. You take this and wait for me. All right?”

Maybe she’d drive off with the twenty. I didn’t really care. I walked to the corner, dropped a dime, stood there listening to the dial tone.

It was too late to call. What time was it? After two, much too late for a social call.

Hell, I could go to my room. All I had to do was stay put for an hour and I’d be in the clear. At three the bars would close.

So? There was a deli that would sell me beer, legally or not. There was an after-hours on Fifty-first, way west between Eleventh and Twelfth. Unless it had closed by now; I hadn’t been there in a long time.

There was a bottle of Wild Turkey in Kim Dakkinen’s front closet. And I had her key in my pocket.

That scared me. The booze was right there, accessible to me at any hour, and if I went there I’d never stop after one or two drinks. I’d finish the bottle, and when I did there were a lot of other bottles to keep it company.

I made my call.

She’d been sleeping. I heard that in her voice when she answered the phone.

I said, “It’s Matt. I’m sorry to call you so late.”

“That’s all right. What time is it? God, it’s after two.”

“I’m sorry.

“It’s all right. Are you okay, Matthew?

“No.”

“Have you been drinking?”

“No.”

“Then you’re okay.”

“I’m falling apart,” I said. “I called you because it was the only way I could think of to keep from drinking.”

“You did the right thing.”

“Can I come over?”

There was a pause. Never mind, I thought. Forget it. One quick drink at Farrell’s before they closed, then back to the hotel. Never should have called her in the first place.

“Matthew, I don’t know if it’s a good idea. Just take it an hour at a time, a minute at a time if you have to, and call me as much as you want. I don’t mind if you wake me, but—”