“Yes, that’s what I would—”

“You want to fuck your nurtured bunch of new boyfriends. Is that right?”

“Yes, Arthur. You just said that and yes, that is right, but God, that is such an awful word. I hate that word, Arthur.”

“What word, Evelyn?”

“You know what word, Arthur.”

“Say it, Evelyn.”

“No. I will not say it.”

“Come on, say it.”

“Why?”

“To get rid of your inhibition about…about…”

“About what?”

“About saying the word ‘fuck.’ About the act!”

“What act?”

“Fucking. The act of fucking.”

“No. I won’t say that awful word.”

“For me, Evelyn?”

“No. Not even for you.”

“Say it, Evelyn. I’m not kidding now. Just say the word ‘fuck.’ Say it out loud.”

“No!”

“Come on, Evelyn. Say it. Don’t be such a pain in the ass.”

“Go fuck yourself, Arthur.”

“There! You said it! You said it, Evelyn! You said ‘fuck’ out loud. A breakthrough, Evelyn! A fucking breakthrough!”

“Seriously, Arthur?”

“Yes, seriously, Evelyn. You’ve made an important breakthrough. Marry me, Evelyn.”

“We are married, for God’s sake.”

“Good. Then come back to me.”

“Do you know one good reason why I should?”

“I can give you three good reasons.”

“Just three?”

“For starters.”

“What are they?”

“I love you, Evelyn. I am crazy about you, Evelyn. And I adore you, Evelyn. That’s three.”

“You really feel that way about me, Arthur?”

“Cross my heart.”

“Awww,” said Evelyn Lounge Durch, and climbed onto Arthur Durch’s lap.

On a hot muggy afternoon in July 2012, somewhere off the New Jersey Turnpike, the producer and a man named Morris Rothberg were talking to each other through the open windows of their automobiles, parked alongside each other. The cars were idling on a barren road in a barren industrial marshland near Elizabeth, New Jersey. The turnpike rose over railroad tracks in the distance, far, far away.

“Morris, I need you to do me a favor.”

“Like what?”

“I want you to dispose of someone.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

“Okay. Sure.”

“What’s the ticket these days, Morris?”

Morris Rothberg was nicknamed “Moe the Hook.” He was reputed to have hung several adversaries by their necks on meat hooks in an ice locker down in the meat-packing district of New York City. Absolutely no one called Morris Rothberg “Moe the Hook.” It was Mr. Rothberg to everyone, with the exception of a few friends who called him Morris.

“A hundred grand, fifty grand up front,” said Rothberg.

“The price has gone up appreciably, Morris.”

“You asked, I told.”

“I didn’t come prepared to pay that much up front.”

“Call me when you have it.”

Morris Rothberg’s window slid up. When the black-tinted window reached the top, the automobile drove away.

Father Daniel Patrick Brady had never been outside of Philadelphia. Consequently, Rome was truly a magical city to the wide-eyed priest.