Nineteen years later, when Beastie was almost thirty-eight, he was arrested for causing a horrendous fatality. While drunk, Beastie ran a traffic light turning right on Sixty-fourth Street and Second Avenue in Manhattan. His truck struck and killed a doctor walking east across Second Avenue. The dead man’s name was Dr. Pincus Klingenstein. Dr. Klingenstein was a famous endocrinologist on his way to the Cornell Medical Center to visit his dying eighty-five-year-old mother. He was fifty-three years old when he died.

Cleveland Steve Beastie from Chicago was convicted of vehicular manslaughter while driving intoxicated and sentenced to ten years in prison without parole. He was sent to Attica State Penitentiary in Attica, New York.

Cleveland Steve Beastie from Chicago was glad of one thing.

At least he had killed a Jew.

It was evening.

The producer was sitting in his favorite armchair deep in thought. He had on the silk and satin printed smoking jacket that he always donned prior to his evening cigar. His legs were crossed carefully so as not to crush the creases in his slacks. His hair was slicked back with a gel he favored. His brows were knitted together with concern. He was relaxing. This was the time the producer allotted for contemplation: the time to read one of the rare books he may have recently purchased or attempt to put a dent in his growing pile of New Yorker and Economist magazines.

Tonight he wasn’t doing that.

Tonight, and all week, all he could think about was the disgusting cripple. He should have forgotten about that despicable bum the moment they parted, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. Why he wouldn’t stop thinking about the cripple was beyond his comprehension.

Or was it?

The producer knew exactly why for seven days and nights he was unable to get the grotesque, germ-infested beggar out of his mind. The reason: the slim possibility that the mangy, crippled piece of shit just might have a really good idea floating around that vile head of his, an idea that could make the producer a lot of money. And let’s not forget the fame part, he mused. The more fame the bigger The New York Times obituary. Maybe he’d even make The Wall Street Journal’s front page when he died. That would really be nice.

Wouldn’t it just be my rotten luck if the damned cripple did have a great idea and I ignored him. Perhaps a telephone call would suffice. If he telephoned the miserable cur, he might be able to extract a hint of the cripple’s program concept, confirm his assumption that anyone’s ideas other than his own were unairable, and get this filthy monster off his back. Damn it all, it certainly was worth a phone call. The longer I procrastinate, he reasoned, the longer I’ll be unable to relax.

The producer picked up the receiver of the telephone by his chair and immediately hung it up. Slammed it down hard. Forget about it, he decided. The whole situation’s a major waste of my precious time.