Myron leapt across the desk, knocking the chair back. Fishman landed hard on his back. He tried to snake-crawl off the chair. Myron leapt on him, straddling his chest. He even pinned Fishman’s arms to the floor with his knees, like a big brother picking on a little one. Old-school.

“Are you out of your goddamn mind?” Myron asked.

No reply. Myron boxed Fishman’s ears hard. Fishman squealed in terror and tried to cover up, cowering, helpless. Myron flashed to the video with Kitty, the satisfied smirk, and he punched Fishman hard in the face.

“The gun’s not loaded!” Fishman yelled. “Check! Please.”

Still pinning down the man’s wiggling arms, Myron checked. Fishman was telling the truth. There were no bullets. Myron tossed the gun across the room. Myron cocked his fist to deliver another blow. But Fishman was sobbing now. Not just crying or cringing or scared. He was sobbing in a way you rarely saw in an adult. Myron rolled off him, still at the ready—two could play at the sudden, surprise attack.

Fishman curled himself into a little ball. He made fists, jammed them into his eyes, and kept sobbing. Myron just waited.

“I’m so sorry, man,” Fishman managed between sobs. “I’m such a mess. I’m really, really sorry.”

“You pulled a gun on me.”

“I’m a mess,” he said again. “You don’t understand. I’m so screwed.”

“Joel?”

He kept sniffling.

“Joel?” Myron slid another photograph across the floor to him. “See the woman in that picture?”

He still had his eyes covered.

Myron made his voice firm. “Look, Joel.”

Fishman slowly put his hands down. His face was slick from tears and probably phlegm. Crush, the tough Manhattan drug dealer, wiped his face with his sleeve. Myron tried to wait him out, but he just stared.

“A few nights ago, you were at Three Downing with that woman,” Myron said. “If you start telling me you don’t know what I’m talking about, I will take off my shoe and beat you with it. Do you understand me?”

Fishman nodded.

“You remember her, right?”

He closed his eyes. “It’s not what you think.”

“I don’t care about any of that. Do you know her name?”

“I’m not sure I should tell you.”

“My shoe, Joel. I could just beat it out of you.”

Fishman wiped his face, shook his head. “That doesn’t seem your style.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Nothing. I just don’t think you’ll hit me anymore.”

In the past, Myron thought, I would have in a Big Apple second. But right now, yeah, Fishman was right. He wouldn’t.

Seeing Myron hesitate, Fishman said, “Do you know anything about addiction?”

Oh boy. Where was this headed? “Yes, Joel, I do.”

“From personal experience?”

“No. Are you going to tell me you’re a drug addict, Joel?”