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converted the two units into a floor-through. Now only he, and Clarisse on the floor above, lived in the building. Valentine’s apartment was casually laid out and decorated. From his bed, peculiarly angled in the large room at the front of the apartment, he had a perfect view into the policemen’s locker room in the District D station. His back windows, in the kitchen, looked out to a portion of the deserted playground, Tremont Street beyond that, and an impressive view of a portion of the Boston skyline.
    â€œâ€˜Wha…?’ what ?” Clarisse asked blearily, not putting down the paper.
    â€œAn advertisement for an all-female production of Death of a Salesman .” Valentine lightly flicked the newspaper with his forefinger. “This is one evening in the theater I don’t think we ought to miss,” he said, and sat back.
    Clarisse lowered the paper and then flipped it over toward herself. She read the advertisement upside down. “I forgot to tell you,” she said groggily, “I already ordered tickets.” She yawned involuntarily.
    â€œYou look awful,” Valentine commented. He ignored her frown and took a sip of his coffee.
    Clarisse crumpled the newspaper as she closed it and slapped it onto the table. “Valentine, that is the third time this morning that you’ve told me how bad I look”—her eyes flicked to a clock on the shelf over the stove—“and it’s only ten-thirty!”
    â€œYou’re cranky, too,” he added. He broke off a large piece of raspberry Danish and dropped it on his plate. Clarisse claimed the remaining half. She reached over and took the pot of coffee from the automatic maker, poured herself a fresh mug, and refreshed Daniel’s. “I never should have gone to bartenders’ school,” she complained. “I should have taken summer courses at Portia. Then I wouldn’t be sitting here looking as terrible as I feel.”
    â€œI warned you not to swill while you’re working behind the bar.”
    Clarisse gave him a look of mortal offense. “I had a few cocktails toward the end of the evening. I did not swill . Besides, last night was the second double shift I’ve worked in three days. Why is it you never ask Niobe to fill in for you? She always looks fine the next morning, no matter what she did the night before.”
    â€œBecause I hired you to work double shift when it’s necessary.”
    â€œWhy are you so mean to me this morning?” she demanded.
    Valentine rapped the knuckles of one hand against his baseball cap, knocking it slightly back on his head. “Pregame jitters, I guess. Sorry.” He was wearing his Slate baseball uniform—pin-striped, turn-of-the-century style, with knickers and gray hose. His pitcher’s glove rested on the table next to the coffee maker.
    Clarisse stared blankly out the window at the derelict brick playhouse in the playground. When she finished her Danish, she turned to Valentine.
    â€œIt’s killing me that I can’t go to the game today,” she said. She leaned forward, resting her forearms on the table. “Val, why couldn’t I open the bar a little later? Just today. It wouldn’t make that much difference, and I’d cheer myself hoarse for you at the game.”
    â€œCan’t do that,” Valentine said. “Think of yourself as a sports widow and you’ll feel better.”
    Clarisse made no reply, but cocked her head toward the main apartment door between the kitchen and the living room. “Someone’s coming up.” Valentine made a move to rise but didn’t even make it out of his chair before the apartment door was flung wide.
    Niobe Feng, wearing a crimson outfit with crimson patent-leather shoes with gray laces, made a bounding leap into the kitchen. She wildly shook two enormous red-and-gray pom-poms above her head, which was adorned with crimson bows. With savage gusto