“C’mon, now. Goldie isn’t the only woman in the world. Why don’t you try one of the other ladies here at Shalom?”

“Believe me, I’ve tried. They all turned me down. Even that battle-ax Pechter.”

I blinked in surprise. I had a hard time picturing Mr. Goldman making a pass at the formidable Mrs. Pechter.

“Face it, Jaine, I’m not a loveable person.”

And with that, he started crying. He tried to pretend it was a cough, but I could see tears coming down his cheeks.

“Please, Mr. Goldman. You mustn’t cry. I’m sure there’s someone out there who’d be happy to do things with you.”

“How about you?” he sniffled. “You never want to go out with me.”

“That’s because I’m young enough to be your granddaughter.”

“So? We don’t have to be boyfriend/girlfriend. It can be platonic. Trust me, the porch light is on upstairs, but the fire in the furnace went out a long time ago.”

He looked up at me with red-rimmed eyes.

“So how about it?”

He looked so damn sad and vulnerable, I guess I temporarily lost my powers of rational thinking. Because the next thing I knew I was saying:

“Okay, I’ll go out with you.”

The minute the words were out of my mouth, the old Mr. Goldman sprang back to life.

“Okay, cookie. It’s a date!”

I was beginning to regret this already.

“Brush up on your mambo!” he said, wiping his tears away with the sleeve of his soup-stained cardigan. “We’re going to Mambo Mania.”

As they say at Shalom, “Oy.”

“Oh, Prozac! You won’t believe what I just did.”

I tossed my keys on the dining room table and headed for the kitchen.

“I actually agreed to go dancing with Mr. Goldman,” I called out as I poured myself a glass of chardonnay. “Was I insane or what?”

I came back out to the living room to tell her about it, but she wasn’t stretched out on her usual spot on the sofa.

She was probably in the bedroom, I figured, shedding on my pillow.

“Can you believe it?” I said, heading down the hallway. “Mambo Mania? With Mr. Goldman? Talk about your dates from hell. It’s like going dancing with a Keebler elf.”

But when I got to the bedroom, there was no sign of her.

A tiny knot of fear began to form in my stomach.

I told myself to stay calm. She was probably hiding under the bed. But I knew better. Prozac’s not a skittish cat. She never hides. I checked under the bed, and under the sofa. In the kitchen and the bathroom. And in every cupboard and closet in the apartment. She was nowhere to be found.

By then, of course, I was crazed with fear.

There was no doubt about it. Prozac was missing.

And I knew who took her: Marty.