“Damn, Bob, you sure couldn’t prove it by me.”

“I know, Tim. And you know I’d do anything within my powers to make it better, but I’m afraid I can’t this year. Looks like you’re going to owe approximately…twenty thousand dollars.…”

“Are you serious? I don’t have that kind of money right now. Oh, Jesus—Jean has no idea this kind of shit is possible.”

“I understand,” he says. “I know you all too well, both of you. Look, there will be options. First of all we’ll get the maximum extension. And then we can file for extended monthly payments over time, like up to six years, so it should be manageable at least. Not pretty, but manageable.”

And I’m wondering what else can go wrong in a world that is coming apart at the seams.

My world.

Chapter 18

It’s six fifteen, time to get over to the wake. There’s still a handful of people at their laptops as I pass through the third floor, where most of the creatives are.

Chris’s packing up. “Hey, Tim. Got any thoughts about all this madness?”

“No more than anybody else, Chris. Have they talked to you yet?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Heard from Quinn they started with the creative guys. You must know about Ramon, right? What he was up to?”

“Well, you hear stuff. Won’t say I haven’t.”

“Exactly. You know damned well the detectives have heard the same stuff by now. Just between you and me, my guess is they actually suspect somebody here at work killed Ramon. We haven’t seen the last of these guys, you can count on that.”

“For sure. You’re going to the wake, right?”

“Absolutely.”

“Want to grab a beverage on the way to the train?” he asks. The last thing I want to do right now is hang out with this guy. Or anybody else.

“Sorry man, I’ve got to make a stop on the way over.” I grab my shoulder bag and head straight for Fanelli’s to disappear into the bar crowd, to try to gather in a few minutes of sanity. Ketel One, soda, lime.

Then I’m off to Crown Heights to honor Ramon’s passing. Grab the downtown 5 to Fulton Street and the A over to Crown Heights. The walk to St. Bartholomew’s helps clear my head, and it needs clearing, that’s for damned sure.

On the way over I call Jean, like the broken record I am.

She answers before the second ring: “Now what?”

“Look, baby, I’m on my way to a wake for Ramon, over in Brooklyn. I know you’ll understand that I have to make an appearance. Won’t be too late, but you probably shouldn’t wait for me for dinner.”

“Okay, I do. And I won’t. And don’t be too late.”

“Later, love. Bye for now.”

Chapter 19

In ten minutes I’m climbing up the stairs into the St. Bartholomew church and the sanctuary. Damn near half the agency’s there, most of them with coffee in hand, chatting quietly in a handful of groups. And probably another fifty or sixty others, mingling at the side, near one of the naves. Obviously family and friends; I don’t recognize any of them.