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townhouse, the Porsche, and at least half the money, and Max was ready to stick out the rest of his life being miserable before he let that happen. He’d worked too hard for what he had and there was no way in hell he was gonna let some lazy cow steal it out from under him.
    Then Max went on Viagra and everything changed.
    Max had thought he was starting to lose interest in sex, maybe even becoming impotent, but then he took Viagra and it worked miracles. Like a horny teenager, he started thinking about sex constantly. Whenever he passed a good-looking woman on the street he found himself imagining what she looked like naked. He bought sex magazines and ripped out the centerfolds, taking them into the bathroom at work and at home. He rented porn videos and nights and weekends he locked himself in the den of his townhouse and watched them. It was like he couldn’t get enough of breasts. It got so bad he never saw women’s faces because he couldn’t raise his eyes past their chests.
    Around this time Angela interviewed for a job at the company. As soon as Max saw her, he knew he had to have her. She was young, she had that whole Irish accent thing going on, and holy shit, the tits on her.
    What surprised him was, entirely apart from what her body did for him, he liked being with her. She’d come out with some Irish-ism like, Where’s me coffee, and he felt something swell up inside him. They never fought. She always laughed at his jokes and never bitched at him about the way he dressed or whatever. Max couldn’t help dreaming about how great it would be if Deirdre was gone and Angela took her place. He could listen to thatlilt his whole goddamn life. Hell, things worked out right, he’d bring her on a honeymoon to Ireland, maybe take her to a U2 concert. She seemed to like that Bono. Max was more into the classical-type stuff. He’d worked at it anyway, bought the whole package of Teach Yourself the Classics. He still didn’t understand what the hell it was all about, didn’t even know the difference between an alto and a concerto, but he could fake it. He loved to bore the losers at the office, going on about his favorite arias.
    When the murder idea came up, it seemed like a big joke. At first anyway. But the more Max and Angela talked about it the more it seemed like the only logical solution. He had offered Deirdre ways out, but she didn’t want to take them, so what was the alternative? He was proud of himself, actually, for holding out for so long. A lot of guys who went through all the bullshit that he’d gone through wouldn’t have had half his patience — they would have hired someone to knock Deirdre off a long time ago.
    Outside Modell’s, Max decided to walk back to his office instead of taking a cab. It was a great day — sunny, about seventy — and Forty-second Street near Grand Central Station was jammed with shoppers and businesspeople on their lunch breaks. Max felt cool, strutting along Fifth Avenue with his suit jacket slung over his shoulder, calling clients on his Blackberry.
    When he arrived back at the office, Angela was sitting at her desk outside Max’s door, eating a salad out of a plastic container.
    Like it was any other normal afternoon, Max said, “Any messages?” and Angela said, “Not a one. How’d your meeting go?”
    “Hard to say,” Max said. “You confirmed that appointment for me with Jack Haywood tonight, though, didn’t you?”
    “Sure did.”
    “Terrific.”
    He felt his voice had the right mix of boss and mellow. Like he’d once heard a young temp say about some guy, He had it going on .
    Max went into his office and closed the door behind him. He had a stiff vodka and grapefruit juice, thinking, This shit is good. At two o’clock, he met with Alan Sorenson, his Senior Networking Manager. There had been an emergency at a client’s Newark office in the morning and Max wanted to make sure the situation was under control and that the company’s network