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Marty.

    “That’s my point. Accident is preferable to sickness, as long as it’s quick and fatal.”

    “It’s not all about you, though, is it?” said Jeremy. “I mean, even your own death isn’t only about you. It’s about everyone else you know, too. That airliner—can’t even think about it.
    But what about all those relatives today? In New York and Cairo? No one got to say good-bye.”

    “I think that’s sick,” said Sean. “Prolong your suffering so you can prolong their suffering? If they wanted to say good-bye they coulda got their asses in the goddamn car and driven to the airport.”

    Some other patrons came in—several corpses in white powder and high collars, blood dripping from their mouths. They sat across from the guys and grinned at them, as if newly emerged from graves to lend a fresh perspective to the discussion. Next, a mother with some kids dressed in prefab drugstore costumes, who sat as far away from the adult ghouls as they could.
    “We might be in luck after all,” said Marty. “A couple more tables and Bozo will have to inch his butt off the stool and help, and we’re cooking.” But for the time being Svetlana traversed the floor on her own, a Volga tugboat in plimsolls.

    Jeremy changed the subject. “Let’s get down to business. Any luck?”

    “If we could do without the piano,” said Marty, “there’s any number of choices.”

    “Well, that’s the problem, isn’t it. We need a piano. That’s the point.”

    “We need a piano, Marty,” echoed Sean. “We need to perfect our fatal harmonies. Hey, that’s a good name for us. The Fatal Harmonies. Better than the Off Nights.”

    “I know it’s Halloween,” replied Marty, “but enough with the fatality tonight, will you?
    Just because you have the lowest T-cell count, you’re claiming unfair advantage.”

    “You ever come to mass,” said Jeremy, “I’ll show you fatal harmonies. Peggy Mueller has a soprano voice like a short-range missile. When she turns devoutly to the figure of Jesus on the cross, singing to it, it looks like she’s going to open her mouth and flay Jesus all over again using only her tremolo.”

    “See, Jeremy’s showing his hand: he’d prefer a long drawn-out death, not instant annihilation,” said Marty. “Flaying, Jeremy, please. Don’t get me started.”

    “They’ll have to augment the historic agony of Christ by inserting another Station of the Cross between numbers ten and eleven. Station Number Ten-A. Peggy Mueller Lacerates Jesus with an Obbligato.”

    “I stay away from church for ten commanding reasons, I don’t need any new ones,” said Sean. “You can’t reconvert me.”

    “Convert me,” said Marty to Jeremy. He stroked the lapels of his bomber jacket as if they were mink and then undid a top shirt button. “Maybe you can make me a Jew for Jesus if you’re passionate enough about it. I’m open to try.”

    “I’ll send you a pamphlet. Come on, guys. Focus. We can’t hold our pitch well enough to work a cappella, and the guitar and bass just isn’t varied enough.” Jeremy was all business. “We need a place with a piano, and a place large enough for guitar and bass. Any other thoughts?” Marty said, “There must be a piano in the Mildred Cleary Elementary Prison, isn’t there?”

    “Of course. A spinet about a thousand years old. It hasn’t been tuned since the invention of central heating. But we couldn’t get our foot in the door there. Three gay men in a grade school? There’d be a mob. There’d be a riot.”

    “Even after hours?”

    “You come from some bizarre Jewish tradition where people regularly exercise the faculty of reason. This is upstate New York, Marty, not Park Slope. Children are our precious resource.”

    “We’re not necessarily a gay group,” said Sean, examining the bowl of his spoon as he spoke. “Couldn’t we, like, just not mention we’re a gay group?” Jeremy and Marty glanced at each other. Sean