Unfavorable, I suppose, but so what. Only yesterday my woes were like the plotlines of a Russian novel and now things are—dare I say it?—going my way.

Perhaps crime committed in the service of justice really does pay.

Again I inhale powerfully and savor the trash-torn riverscape. The water smells of diesel, decomposing organics, and waterlogged plastics; the boatyard has an overwhelming odor of fresh composite, marine oil, and sailcloth, and underneath it all the city summertime morning air—already chewed and spat out by millions of people—is trying and failing to offer something fresh.

But it doesn’t matter. To me it smells fantastic. To me it smells like life.

When I crack open the velvet box the creaky hinge doesn’t sound coffinlike and when I spread the words out over the dead, despoiled air—“Do you know what that sound is?”—I do not feel the mortality crush.

I feel hope.

What the Covet Girl Tells Me

What the Covet Girl Tells Me

Charlie misses our boat night. The next day she is also out of touch. Ditto the day after that—Monday, when my locker is devoid of insulting Schermeresque pranks and when, gloriously, Po-Mo apologizes on behalf of the board, pats me on the back, and formally assigns me to the Nakamura job as floater—even though I have left about nineteen messages. This is weird not only because normally Charlie’s cell is clamped to her ear like a lamprey but because in each message I explained, rationalized, apologized, and groveled in every way known to modern man.

The fight was bad. The accusations against the Rat Burglar— and the accusing erection—didn’t help. The strike to her jaw was terrible. I know that.

But I’ve never known Charlie to give the silent treatment. It feels all wrong. Apparently, though, the twentieth time is the charm. I am in the middle of leaving a message telling her that I recovered that prospect I thought I lost to the Yankees when my call waiting buzzes and I see her name on my screen for the first time in days. Just the sight of those letters in that arrangement—C-H-A-R-L-I-E—seems like a tremendous relief. My screen has missed them.

I switch over. We talk. It’s all right, I guess, but something is off. The meter in our conversation is halting and broken. We’re a little too polite. It’s like we are a couple of students in a first-year foreign language class, unsure of the vocabulary and enunciating everything with too much care. Getting it wrong by getting it too right—robots of formality.

“I’m sorry about your jaw.”

“That’s all right. It was an accident.”

“How does it feel?”

“Fine.”

“That prospect didn’t sign with the Yankees. I got him back.”

Tonelessly: “That’s great.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Do you want to come over tonight and celebrate?”