Instead she repeated her Gauloise ceremony. Four deep drags before snuffing out the butt in the Martini & Rossi ashtray. Looking out into the black void, Baby had no idea that the king of voyeurs had her in his crosshairs. He watched her stretch her arms and let go with a long, luxurious yawn. She did the perky ass pivot, killed the lights, and the show was over. It was a no-yogurt night. No doubt she was frigging off. As she went to bed with rock-hard nipples, what other explanation was there? He wanted to bust the door down and say, “Look, I can see you’re jerking off, no doubt fantasizing about cock. I got a hard-on. What say we get it on, baby?”

Suddenly Clifford heard air horns from the river below. He hit the button and watched a salt barge clear passage. He hit the button again, and in less than a minute the car traffic resumed. It had snowed through the night, and he watched fluffy flakes spin through the air, no two alike; another miracle from the magical universe that wasn’t so magical without Percocet.

When his shift was over Clifford walked to his apartment and abused himself twice before he closed his eyes and watched Technicolor cartoons play out on the back of his eyelids. He was amped up on Percocets and the delirious chemicals of infatuation. No matter, he would take what he could get. Oh Christ, she was beautiful!

He woke up at three the next afternoon feeling like death warmed over. He took three Percocets with a cup of instant coffee and within fifteen minutes was back on top of the world. He rushed over to the Hudson & Swain building to scan the mailboxes for her name. Maura Michaels, had to be Maura Michaels. Clifford walked nine blocks to the House of Roses. He tried to order four dozen long-stem red roses for her loft. The florist told him his MasterCard was maxed out. There was enough money on his Visa card to cover three dozen roses. “Okay, fine,” Clifford said as he penned a note. “To Maura with love. Your secret admirer.”

By the time he got to work he was kicking himself for writing such a lame piece of crap. “Your secret admirer,” what kind of shit was that? He began scanning Baby’s apartment the second Johnny Magill punched out, but it remained dark clear through dawn, when he heard Cotton’s heavy feet tread up the stairs to begin the morning shift.