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time with Carson and his death. It was to be published as fiction, and originally she had planned that when the manuscript was finished, she would change the names; but for the last eight months she had evoked Carson daily, reexamining her relationship with him, and had come to the conclusion that she would publish it as she wrote it, and let come what might. And yet the most precious gift of jewelry that he had given her was gone. When she had offered to buy the ring from the thief, he had derided her—and still she could tell herself that she would keep her word, although by now she realized how ridiculous her proposal was.
    â€œ It’s burning outside, and you sit here with your fuckin’ jewels! ”
    No, no, no! exploded inside of her. I am not a racist! I did not make slavery! I paid my dues. Who are you to judge me? What do you know of me?
    Angrily she rummaged through her tool drawer, found a spare telephone cord, and managed to plug it in. She looked at her watch; it was seven-thirty. She sat staring at the telephone and brooding, and then she looked at her watch again and it was seven forty-five. She went into the bathroom, glanced at the mirror, and then brushed her thick white hair. Her dearest friend, Eloise, had pleaded with her to dye it the rich honey color it had once been, but after Carson died she had become indifferent to her looks. Then she went back to the chair by the telephone, an ancient green velvet upholstered Victorian chair that she had inherited from old Sam Goldberg, her father’s lawyer and, after Dan’s death, her surrogate father. Evidently the chair finally brought her to a decision, and she picked up the telephone and called her own lawyer, Abner Berman.
    â€œDo you know what time it is?” he demanded sleepily.
    â€œIt’s a time when honest men are on their way to work.”
    â€œBarbara?”
    â€œYes. And I have a problem. It’s a short walk to my house, and I have a problem.”
    â€œWhat kind of problem?” he wanted to know. “You always have a problem.”
    â€œThis is a different kind.”
    â€œYou always have a different kind. Come to my office in an hour and bring your problem with you.”
    â€œNo. I can’t talk to you in your office. You’re too rich and successful, and the walk will do you good. I have fresh-brewed coffee, and I’ll give you toast and eggs.”
    â€œBarbara!”
    â€œFor two hundred dollars an hour, you can afford to come here.”
    â€œI don’t charge for house calls. I’ll be there in an hour, and just coffee. I’m trying to lose weight since Reda left me.”
    S O R EDA HAD LEFT HIM! Abner was a corpulent, good-natured man of fifty or so, and they had been married for twenty years, and he announced this offhandedly at the end of a sentence, and then hung up before she could question him. No more until death do us part; it was all over the place.
    Until death do us part was her own curse, and every man she had loved was dead. Well, she had an hour before he’d be there, and she might as well put it to use. But when she sat down at her desk she could not escape the night, and instead of writing she found herself not only reliving the night but probing through her own past.
    At nine o’clock the doorbell sounded, and when she opened the door, it was not to Abner but to two men, one stocky and mustached, the other thin and tall. They showed her their open wallets and badges before they announced themselves:
    â€œInspector Meyer,” the stocky man said. “This is Inspector Phelps. Can we come in?”
    She pulled herself together and nodded. “Of course. Come in and sit down. You’ll excuse me for a moment.” Then she ran upstairs and into her bedroom, and when she picked up the telephone, she realized that it was not working, that the connection had been ground under the thief’s heel. “Oh, Abner, Abner,” she