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you?”
    “For five grand a day and a performance bonus, I will try really, really hard.”
    “When do you start?”
    “Tomorrow. As soon as they send over the documents I need.”
    “You have a date tomorrow.” As in, you have a date tomorrow, and
don’t forget
!
    Skeli was graduating from a three-year doctoral program in physical therapy from Columbia University. I was not going to miss it.
    “I will be there. They’d have to pay me at least ten grand before I’d skip that ceremony.”
    “You’d skip my graduation for ten thousand dollars?”
    “Wouldn’t you?” I said, still thinking we were both having fun.
    “Actually, no.” She let me squirm for a moment before continuing. “But if you get an offer up around fifty, take two and I’ll go with you.”
    For once I let wisdom win out over exercising my sometimes lame sense of humor. “Forgive me for making a bad joke. I will be there without fail.”
    “And one request? I know you’d like to buy me flowers. Everybody there will be getting flowers. But just for me? No flowers. Okay? Promise?”
    Skeli associated bouquets of flowers with her ex-husband’s repeated infidelities. Someday, I vowed, I would cure her of this affliction and cover her in rose petals.
    “How about a potted palm?”
    She chuckled. “How about a buzzed begonia?”
    “A looped lily?”
    “Bad. A schnockered nasturtium?”
    “Say that three times fast.”
    She did.
    “You win. Are you coming over?”
    She gave a sigh. “You know the Kid hates it when I’m there in the morning.”
    “No, he just never sees me smile in the morning, except when you’re here. It confuses him.”
    “And if I leave before you get him up, it’s like I’m sneaking out. That panties-in-the-pocket feeling. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a lady.”
    “I’ve noticed. That’s why I want you to come over.”
    “See you tomorrow. Pick me up at two? We’ll walk up together.”
    “Dulces sueños, mia batata,”
I said.
    “Oh, god. Carolina’s going to bust a gut. Have you ever heard yourself speak Spanish? You make it sound almost Russian. See you at two.”
    And she was gone. But so was the blue cloud of guilt that had been pressing me down into the chair. I got up and went to bed.
    The phone rang again fifteen minutes later. I had just dropped off.
    “Change your mind?” A man is essentially an optimist where his libido is concerned.
    “Jason?”
    It was Angie. My ex. All libidinous thoughts vanished.
    “The Kid’s asleep, Angie. As a matter of fact, so was I. What do you want?”
    “It’s nice to hear your voice, too,” she said.
    “Sorry.” I pulled myself together and fought the impulse to check to see that my wallet was on the end table. My money tended to disappear around Angie. “How are you? How’s your mother? Tino?” I could do polite when challenged.
    “Thank you. All just fine, thank you. I am calling to talk to you, not my son.”
    “My son”—this was about territory, possession. I discovered that I had a headache. Five seconds earlier, I did not have a headache.
    “Angie,” I said with a resigned sigh. “It’s late. Is this an emergency? Can’t we do this during normal hours?”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “Tomorrow? Midday?”
    She ignored me. “I am coming to New York. Mamma and Tino are coming, too.” Her brother. “I will spend some time with my son. Reconnecting. And I want to see you. There are things that need to be said. Things that need to be set right. I need you to hear me out. You owe me that much.”
    When I went to prison, Angie and I had worked out a plan. We got a divorce, and I transferred half my assets over to her—the Feds and my lawyers took the rest. The second half of the plan was that we would reunite once I was out. Instead, Angie had taken off for home—Beauville, Louisiana—taking our boy and the money. When things got hard, she dumped the Kid and kept the money. Then it got worse. A lot worse. I really