Katie started to cry again. I poured her a stronger drink this time, from a bottle of Francis Ford Coppola’s wine someone had given me as a gift. It had been sitting for months, uncorked and unfinished, in my kitchen.

Tasting it, Katie made a face. “Maybe we should go out and get something better. Are there any good bars in your neighborhood?”

I almost laughed. “I don’t think you’re getting the seriousness of this. I mean, this is really—”

“Oh, I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” she said, petulantly. “I’m tired of it. Okay?”

I shrugged. “I guess.”

Katie shook her head then; it was the closest I’d ever seen her come to despair. “I’ve made an awful mess of things. Johnny was no one to trust, though he was exciting, in a dangerous sort of way. And Graus … I never slept with him, you know, no matter what people think. I bashed him in the head with a Kleenex box once, because he begged me to. But I like tenderness, myself.”

The whole time she was talking, she stayed close to me; so many smells came from her. I liked all of them, but she wrinkled her nose.

“Can I take a shower? I’m funky.”

“So’s my shower.”

“I don’t mind. Really.”

“Let me just, you know, use a sponge.”

It had been a while since someone nontrivial had been in my bathroom; our standards for cleanliness are different. But Katie was refreshingly unconcerned.

“That’s fine, that’s fine,” she said, starting to run the shower. “It’s spotless, it’s great.”

I backed off, sponge in hand. The hot water looked inviting; I was rank, too, from traveling to Philadelphia. But I started to leave the room.

“Hey, Roy?”

“Yes?”

“What’s this?”

Katie now wore only a T-shirt and light blue panties, which clashed with her red pubic hair. She was pointing to her pale, freckled belly, which her shirt didn’t cover. There was a curious dark splotch near her navel, clutched by a little ring.

“Is it blood?”

“I don’t know. I can’t tell.”

“Really? Well, why don’t you come closer?”

She gently guided me to my knees. It was obviously a birthmark; she’d had it for years. I played along. It wasn’t so easy to say you were lonely and afraid and wanted somebody; I knew that better than most.

Softly, I placed my hand on the spot. Then I placed my lips on it.

Her stomach was warm. The skin beneath her waistband was warmer. Katie slowly stepped out of her panties. I started to pull my shirt up, over my head. Steam filled the air.

“Whatever it is,” I said, “I’ll wash it away.”

“I BROUGHT BACK YOUR TAPE,” SHE SAID LATER.

For a second, half-asleep, I had no idea what Katie meant. Then I remembered: Dena’s father’s tape.

“Graus practically threw it at Johnny and me,” she said, quietly. “You know, when he was still alive.”

I smiled to myself, brushing her hair a little. Hours earlier, dripping wet, we had shifted to my bed from the shower. My drain had been clogged, and water had risen as high as our shins. But both of us had been very clean and felt very close when we moved to the foldout couch. We were still damp, and I stuck to Katie now as I kissed her.

“How long have we been sleeping?” she asked, squinting at the light.

“I have no idea.” I picked my watch up from the floor. “Six hours.”

“Jeez.” Katie stretched a little. “I feel good, though.”

So did I. Recalling our circumstances didn’t spoil my mood; it enhanced it. Katie felt secure with me, and I didn’t mean to let her down. If her affection had been motivated by accidentally murdering someone, who was I to complain? Anyway, I liked her.

But the reality of the situation was dawning on her now, too.

“I wonder what’s happened.”

“I’ll tell you in a second,” I said.

It was a glorified studio, so I couldn’t go far. But, considerately, I kept the TV volume low, as I surfed channels for news of Graus’s death.

Eventually, I found some. An esoteric European actor with one Hollywood hit twenty-five years ago didn’t top any reports. But a murder was a murder.

Some tape of Graus in Macaroon Heart was shown. A “female companion” was being sought. No name was mentioned; the cops were keeping it to themselves, I guessed. The part about Graus dying in a dress would come out sooner or later, too, on the Internet, if nowhere else.

I switched the thing off. Then I turned. Katie was lying with a pillow over her face, to stop the sound. Feeling lousy, I returned to her.

“Okay,” I said. “That’s all.”

Katie uncovered her face.

“All of this over some movie,” she said. “I don’t even like Jerry Lewis.”

“No? Have you ever seen The Nutty Professor?”

“With Eddie Murphy? Just the sequel. Why?”

“Never mind.”

There was no point in explaining. Katie hadn’t cared when Leonard Friend showed her Graus’s chapter, and she wouldn’t care now.

“Are you hungry?” I asked.

She nodded.

I kissed her forehead. “Don’t answer the door or the phone.”