"Hi there." Juan reddens. "Look, I-"

Here I leap in with abject apologies and begin to relate the turbulent events of the evening. He cuts me off and waves us in. Emma and I choose an overstuffed sofa and sit side by side, like a couple, while Juan hurries to the bedroom to change. Again voices are heard, but Emma is unflinching. Her expression suggests she approves of Juan's taste in art and furniture. When he returns, in wrinkled blue jeans and a polo shirt, he is accompanied by a stunning black-haired woman whom I recognize as Miriam, the orthopedic surgeon. She now is wearing Juan's robe, making a statement.

"Miriam, you remember Jack," Juan says, nervously smoothing his hair, "and this is Emma, she works at the newspaper, too. She's an editor."

Miriam acts unimpressed but Emma is smooth as silk. The two women exchange cool hellos. Juan looks at me pleadingly and all I can do is wince with remorse.

"We won't stay long," Emma says, and hands the black box to Juan. "We think it attaches to a computer."

He nods. "Sure does. Connects right here, with a cable." Out of courtesy he shows it to Miriam, who also nods. When I sneak a glance at Emma, a smile plays at the corners of her mouth.

"It's an external hard drive," Juan says.

"What does it do?"

"Whatever it's told. Where'd you get this?"

We can't tell him, not with Miriam hovering. She is intently curious about the reason for our visit; only high drama can excuse an interruption at this hour.

"It's a long, messy story," I tell Juan.

Emma pipes up: "Jack's working on an investigation." Words I never dreamed I'd hear her say.

Juan winks at me. I ask him if the hard drive will fit on my computer at work.

"Might," he says, "but it'll probably come up as gibberish on your screen." He explains that the device is like a disembodied brain. "You can't just plug it in anywhere and expect it to zap back to life. You need to figure out how it was programmed before you can find out what's inside."

And what's inside that little box, I'm hoping, is the key to Jimmy Stoma's death.

Emma says to Juan, "Can you give it a try?"

His eyes flick painfully from Emma to Miriam, and then to me. He says, "Um... not tonight. How about tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow is fine," I say.

He peers at my lumpy face. "Man, you all right? Looks like you fell down three flights of stairs."

"Two," I say with a crooked smile. "And would you believe I was dead sober."

Miriam, the physician, feels obliged to let us know she isn't fooled by our light bonhomie. "You've been beaten up," she says sternly. "You've been punched in the face."

"Yes, and elsewhere." Suddenly I don't feel so chipper. "Come on, Emma, let's be on our way. These two kids need some shut-eye."

Just as I'm approaching the car, the flagstones in Juan's yard start dodging my feet. Emma orders me into the passenger seat, where I prop my clammy forehead against the window.

"Thanks for driving," I say.

"Welcome."

"You okay?"

"Better than you. Take a nap."

"She's a doctor. Miriam is." For some inexplicable reason-or perhaps as an unfortunate side effect of the concussion-I decide Emma should know that Juan has high standards. He doesn't screw just anybody. "A trained surgeon," I add.

"Well, she's very pretty."

I hear myself saying, "Not as pretty as you."

"Jack, you're so full of shit."

"Fine."

God, do I feel wretched-this is the worst possible time to be alone with Emma. I'm liable to blow everything. When I ask her to turn down the volume on the stereo, she says, "Gladly." It will be her final word on Stomatose.

As we pull up to her driveway, she snatches the car keys out of the ignition. "You're in no shape to go home."

"Give 'em here! I'll be all right."

"Don't be a jerk."

So I'm back on her couch, with a sweaty palmful of aspirin and a forehead packed under ice. She's wearing an oversized Pearl Jam T-shirt and padding barefoot around the place, turning off lamps and checking the locks.

"Jack, wouldn't it be something," she's saying, "if they're trying to knock off the band?"

"Who?"

"Well-first Jimmy Stoma dies, and now Jay Burns. What if somebody's killing off the Slut Puppies one by one?"

Emma slips into the bathroom, out of view. I can hear the assiduous brushing of teeth. "Fink a bow id," she gurgles.

"I've heard of careers being murdered," I say, "but never a whole band."

When Emma returns, she smells like a mint. "Well, who's left?"

"The lead guitarist died a few years ago, so there's really just the two bass players."

"What about a drummer?"

"Jimmy went through a dozen of 'em," I say.

The apartment is dark except for a light on the nightstand in Emma's bedroom.

"Maybe you should talk to them. The bass players," she suggests.

"When-between dead rabbis?"

"Hey, didn't I give you a week to crack the case."

"'Crack the case'?" All of a sudden I'm Angela Lansbury.

Emma rolls her eyes and heads for the sack. Moments later, her room goes black. I swallow the aspirins dry, and blink exhaustedly. Bedsprings squeak as Emma arranges herself beneath the covers. In the darkness I hear myself saying, "Hey, I never answered your snoopy question."

"What's that?" Emma calls back, testily.

"You asked if I was sleeping with anybody. Well, I'm not."

"I know." She replies so quietly I can barely hear it. "Get some rest, Jack." And I obey...

Later I awake to a rhythm of breathing that's not my own. The ice has been removed from my brow, and my cheeks have been patted dry. Emma is pulling the blanket down to cover my feet.

When I stir, she whispers, "It's just me."

"You missed your calling."

"Close your eyes."

"How old are you, Emma?"

"I'm twenty-seven."

Oh Christ oh Christ oh Christ oh Christ "Why do you ask?" she says.

Hendrix Joplin Jones Morrison Cobain-I could scream out their names. But instead all I say is: "Twenty-seven. Wow."

"Wow yourself. It's not as great as you remember."

"Are you kidding? It's beautiful."

"I threw away those Valiums," she says. "After lunch I went back to my desk and tossed them in the garbage, every damn pill."

Silence in the darkness. Has she returned to the bedroom?

"Emma?"

"What?"

Good. She's still here.

"Thanks for taking care of me tonight."

"Thanks for the adventure, Jack." She leans down and kisses me as lightly as a butterfly brushing my lips. Then I'm alone again, tumbling into a fine dreamless sleep.

16.

There's nothing wrong with me, not even a mild concussion. That's the word from my doctor, Susan, who is six years younger than I am and works the rookie shift, Saturdays, for a downtown medical group. Susan isn't impressed by my swollen nose, the knots on my jaw or the knuckle-shaped welt on my ribs. However, the tale of how I came by these scrapes and bruises intrigues her, especially the business about the frozen lizard. I feel pressure to be entertaining, knowing she believes my monthly physical examinations are a waste of time. I always insist on the works, of course, including a full spectrum of blood-gas analysis and the ever-popular prostate excursion, upon which Dr. Susan is preparing to embark.

"No offense, Jack," she's saying, "but I'm damn tired of looking up your ass every four weeks. It's totally unnecessary, as the nice folks at your HMO have pointed out."

"Humor me, okay? And don't I always pay cash?"

"There's nothing wrong with you," Susan says again. "You're a completely healthy specimen-physically, at least."

"You married yet?"

"No, but if I was," says Susan, from behind, "I'd keep a three-carat diamond ring on this finger"-the dreaded snap of latex!-"just for you, buddy."

The death of John Dillinger Burns rates two paragraphs on page three of the Union-Register's Metro section. Police are investigating the circumstances... Alcohol and drugs are believed to be involved... Burns, 40, formerly had been the keyboard player for a popular rock band, Jimmy and the Slut Puppies. Ironically, the group's lead singer, Jimmy Stoma, recently died in a diving accident in the Bahamas...

And that's that. Onward to the Sports page, where Juan has a story about a college basketball star who became a gambling addict by the age of twenty-another superb piece, unsparing and poignant at the same time. What I'd give to have Juan's touch!

"Hey, handsome."

It's Carla Candilla. Her hair is now... I want to say turquoise.

"Close enough," she allows. "Sorry I'm late. Is this Pellegrino for me? You're such a sweetheart."

We're meeting at her favorite cafe, Iggy Cheyenne's, which overlooks the beach and the old wooden fishing pier. Seagulls are a menace at lunchtime, but today they're wheeling clear of our table. For this I credit Carla's vivid dye job.

She wants to hear all about the break-in at my apartment, enthralled at the thought of me fighting back and drawing blood. I purposely don't mention the handy role of the late Colonel Tom, whom Carla believes to be alive and running free with other lizards.

A bleary-eyed waiter materializes. Carla and I order a calamari appetizer and two Greek salads. Afterwards she sets down her glass, glances around and says: "Well. You're not the only one who had a big Friday night-guess who I saw at Jizz."

"The singing widow!"

"Nope. Her boyfriend."

"You're sure?"

"My sources are primo," Carla says, "but I would've pegged him anyway, on account of the hair. What's up with that?"

"I told you it was amazing."

"From behind we all thought it was Mariah Carey. I swear he must do it in a fucking laundry press, that hair."

"What's his name? Who is he?"

I pull out my notebook and fumble for a pen. Carla grins. "Black Jack in action!"

"Did you get his name or not?"

"What do you think? Course I got his name. It's Loreal."

"First name first."

"He doesn't have one," she says.

"Of course he does."