I said, “I almost got killed half an hour ago. I beat a kid up and broke his legs for him. I’m shaking like I never shook before in my life. The only thing that’s going to make me feel right is a drink and I’m afraid to take one and scared I’ll do it anyway. I thought being with someone and talking with someone might get me through it but it probably wouldn’t anyway, and I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called. I’m not your responsibility. I’m sorry.”

“Wait!”

“I’m here.”

“There’s a clubhouse on St. Marks Place where they have meetings all night long on the weekends. It’s in the book, I can look it up for you.”

“Sure.”

“You won’t go, will you?”

“I can’t talk up at meetings. Forget it, Jan. I’ll be all right.”

“Where are you?”

“Fifty-eighth and Ninth.”

“How long will it take you to get here?”

I glanced over at Armstrong’s. My gypsy cab was still parked there. “I’ve got a cab waiting,” I said.

“You remember how to get here?”

“I remember.”

The cab dropped me in front of Jan’s six-story loft building on Lispenard. The meter had eaten up most of the original twenty dollars. I gave her another twenty to go with it. It was too much but I was feeling grateful, and could afford to be generous.

I rang Jan’s bell, two long and three short, and went out in front so that she could toss the key down to me. I rode the industrial elevator to the fifth floor and stepped out into her loft.

“That was quick,” she said. “You really did have a cab waiting.”

She’d had time to dress. She was wearing old Lee jeans and a flannel shirt with a red-and-black checkerboard pattern. She’s an attractive woman, medium height, well fleshed, built more for comfort than for speed. A heart-shaped face, her hair dark brown salted with gray and hanging to her shoulders. Large well-spaced gray eyes. No makeup.

She said, “I made coffee. You don’t take anything in it, do you?”

“Just bourbon.”

“We’re fresh out. Go sit down, I’ll get the coffee.”

When she came back with it I was standing by her Medusa, tracing a hair-snake with my fingertip. “Her hair reminded me of your girl here,” I said. “She had blonde braids but she wrapped them around her head in a way that made me think of your Medusa.”

“Who?”

“A woman who got killed. I don’t know where to start.”

“Anywhere,” she said.