And here’s Chuck Esposito from WNBC out on the sidewalk, and his cameraman’s with him, again! So much for clearing my head.

The cameraman points his camera at me and starts rolling.

“Sorry to bother you, Tim, but we just…”

“Hold it, hold it! And please turn that damned thing off.” They do.

“Look. I respect what you guys are after, and what you do, searching for the truth, you know? It’s just that I’ve got nothing to say, nothing to add to what you already know.”

“We’ve talked to Detective Quinn, who said he was impressed with your knowledge of the agency and all the people who work here. That if anybody knew anything it’d be you…”

“Flattering, I guess. But I don’t. And if you’ll excuse me, I’m meeting some folks.…”

“Okay, sure. But we’ll likely contact you again and…”

I’m headed down the street before he can finish his sentence. Give me a break!

Down at the corner I can finally take in a deep breath. Exhale. Helps. I’m making my way across Union Square up toward the Flatiron Building when I see a couple of guys I vaguely recognize. “Hey, buddy,” one of them says to me, with a slightly forced smile.

“Hey…” Who the hell are these guys?

“Hope you’re well. Don’t remember your name. But I know you were friends with Ramon. Terrible about Ramon. Fucking terrible.”

“Sure is,” I say, eager to move on.

“Got that right. Anyway, sorry. I know you guys were close.”

Which is totally weird. “Sure, thanks. Take care,” and I head on up to 26th Street.

This is getting crazy.

Hill Country is rockin’. Chris and his Desberardos are playing downstairs, and their music reaches up to the street. I can hear Chris blowing his harp, and that’s our Bill Kelly backing him up on guitar. Down I go, and spot a group of agency types over by the bar.

Bonnie’s out on the floor in front of the band dancing, and I join her. It’s a rockin’ tune, but I pull her in close for a spin, and drift off into fantasyland. The song’s over much too soon, so I release my grip on her and we head back to the bar.

“So, Tim…” David Gebben, the copywriter, speaks close to my ear. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you and BJ were getting it on.”

“Oh, Jesus, no. Not saying I wouldn’t like to, but, you know, never dip your pen in company ink.…”

“Right,” he says, utterly unconvinced.

By the time I walk through the front door at home, Jean and the kids are upstairs, fast asleep.

I tiptoe into the kids’ rooms, first Ellie’s and then Brady’s, pull their covers up and steal a late kiss good night. Ellie cracks one eye open. “Hi, Daddy…” Brady’s out like a light. Jean rolls over as I’m approaching our bed and moans something loving. She’s at peace, for now.

If she only knew.…

A soft kiss good night and I’m back downstairs to pour myself a glass of pinot noir, Signaterra 2012. Then I settle into my chair in the den and drift off into thoughts about the life I’m living.