“I’m an alcoholic,” Harold said, shocked.

“Who cares?” the man said. He got a bright orange shopping bag from somewhere under the bar and put the bottles in it. “On the house,” he said. Harold stared at him. “What is your goddamned, fucking name?”

“For me to know,” the man said softly. “For you to find out.”

Harold took the shopping bag, pushed open the door and went into the lobby. There was no doorman at the big doorway of the hotel, but the man in the sleeveless sweater stood there like a doorman. “Have a good day now, Harold,” the man said as Harold left.

Now there was no one else on the street but the man. Everywhere. And now they all looked at him in recognition, since he had given his name. Their smiles were cool, distant, patronizing. Some nodded at him slightly as he made his way slowly up the avenue toward Sixty-third, some ignored him. Several passed on motorcycles, wearing red helmets. A few waved coolly to him. One slowed his motorcycle down near the curb and said, “Hi, Harold,” and then sped off. Harold closed his eyes.

He got home all right, and up the stairs. When he walked into the living room he saw that the cats had knocked his new painting to the floor and had badly smeared a corner of it. Apparently one of them had rolled on it. The cats were nowhere in sight. He had not seen them since Janet had gone.

He did not care about the painting now. Not really. He knew what he was going to do. He could see in his mind the French movie, the man on the motorcycle.

In the closet where she kept her vacuum cleaner, Janet also kept a motorcycle helmet. A red one, way up on the top shelf, behind some boxes of candles and light bulbs. She had never spoken to him of motorcycles; he had never asked her about the helmet. He had forgotten it, having noticed it when he was unpacking months before and looking for a place to put his Samsonite suitcase. He set the bag of bottles on the ledge by the window overlooking the building where men in brown sleeveless sweaters were now working. He opened one bottle with a practiced fingernail, steadily. The cork came out with a pop. He took a glass from the sideboard and poured it half full of whiskey. For a moment he stood there motionless, looking down at the building. The work, he saw without surprise, was getting done. There was glass in the window frames now; there had been none that morning. The plywood ramp had been replaced with marble steps. Abruptly he turned and called, “Kitty! Kitty!” toward the bedroom. There was silence. “Kitty! Kitty!” he called again. No cat appeared.

In the kitchen there was a red-legged stool by the telephone. Carrying his untasted glass of whiskey in one hand, he picked up the stool with the other and headed toward the closet at the back of the apartment. He set the whiskey on a shelf, set the stool in the closet doorway. He climbed up carefully. There was the motorcycle helmet, red, with a layer of dust on top. He pulled it down. There was something inside it. He reached in, still standing on the stool, and pulled out a brown sleeveless sweater. There were stains on the sweater. They looked like bloodstains. He looked inside the helmet. There were stains there, too. And there was a little blue plastic band with letters on it. It read Paul Bendel—Paris. Once, in bed, Janet had called him Paul. Oh, you son of a bitch! he said.