“You’ve got nine bathrooms in the house,” Abel said. “Surely, one of the faucets has a drip I could fix.”

Lillian’s eyes began to water. “Why didn’t you answer my calls?”

“I was in bad blue funk, Lillian,” Abel said. “But I’m comin’ out of it. I’m sorry that things aren’t going well for you.”

“Oh Jesus.” She brushed tears away from her eyes. “I’m getting too goddam old for this.”

“Up to you—”

“Stop it, Abel…. Just…stop it.”

Abel put down his toolbox, waited for further instructions. Lillian smoked her cigarette down to the butt, then threw open the door.

She said, “There’s a leak in the blue guest room’s bathroom…in the tub. See what you can do about it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She stalked into the house, but left the door open for him. The same maid came back to show him to the bathroom. As if he needed help. He knew the house better than she did. But he dutifully followed her up the twisting oak-polished staircase, through mazelike rough-plastered hallways, floored with strain-grain strips of high-gloss mahogany and covered with genuine Navaho rugs. Lillian was remodeling again, the east side of the house this time. Endless money, endless time.

“Aquí,” the maid said, bringing him into the blue guest room. “En el baño.”

Abel nodded and closed the bedroom door. This chamber was one of the smallest bedrooms in the mansion, only 14'-by-14', and without a fireplace. It was done completely in blue and reminded Abel of an igloo. He walked into the bathroom and turned on the tub faucet. Small leak in the cold water tap. He opened his box, exposed the piping, refit the seat stopper, and, a minute later, the faucet was dripless. He stood and stripped naked, regarding himself in the mirror.

Lillian was right. He did look like shit. His shoulders drooped, and his ribs were stretching through his skin. Two years of grueling work—the pump-up exercises, the vitamins, the health food—blown to bits. Past six months he must have lost half of all his muscle mass. The depression had really hit hard this time. He’d stopped eating, exercising, working. Hadn’t done anything but sleep—and sleepwalk. Waking up in all sorts of strange places, wondering how he got there.

Once they threw him in the drunk tank despite his protests that he wasn’t drunk. But they didn’t know what else to do with him, so there he remained while drunks puked on him.

Bad, he told himself. You gotta come out of it.

And he was getting better. His sex drive had even come back. Then this shit with the whore had to happen. Almost plunged him into another pit until Doc rescued him. Now Doc had his own ideas about him. That Abel was planning to do something to his girl.