The Man Who Loved Women to Death by David Handler Page B

loons and freaks and oddballs. The stalkers with their AK-47s. The mad bombers with their fertilizer and diesel fuel. But we mustn’t give in to them. We mustn’t let them rule our world. That’s how they win.”
    “I know that, Merilee.” I reached over and took her hand and squeezed it. “I’m fine. Everything is fine.”
    “Of course it is, darling.”
    But of course it wasn’t. And I knew it. I knew it as soon as the phone woke me and I picked it up and I heard Romaine Very’s voice on the other end. This was early on Monday morning.
    “Put your pants on, dude,” the lieutenant said heavily. “We got us another one.”

Three
    D EAR HOAGY,
    I’ve taken the liberty of enclosing the second chapter of my work in progress. I don’t dare call it a novel yet, but it really does seem to be taking shape. More importantly, I think I’m starting to hear my character’s voice. And that is very exciting. But you are the expert, of course, and your opinion means much more than mine does.
    It occurs to me you don’t know how to reach me. If you want, you can take out one of those little personal ads at the bottom of the front page of The New York Times. Just address it to me. I’ll keep my eyes open, like any good writer should. And I’ll be sure to get back to you. By the way, do you think I’ll need an agent? Can you recommend one? Or will you be my agent? Please advise. Anyway, I hope you like this. And thanks again for your time.
    Yours truly,
    the answer man
    p.s. Did I mention the movie rights? Make sure you hold on to them. We’re talking millions here!
    p.p.s. Glad to see you’re a fan of Barney Greengrass. It’s always been one of my favorites. Those people at Zabar’s are so incredibly rude. Who was that short, muscular guy in the leather coat, a fellow author?
    2. the answer man goes to school
    New York City, December 4
    Friend E—Thanks for that fifty dollars, man. Knew I could count on you. You are a true friend, not like all of these front artists out here who call you their friend but are strictly looking out for themselves. I’ll pay you back soon as I can, not that you’re asking. I’m needing to get back to work anyway. Not just because of the bucks, but because work is what holds you together when you’re out. Your work is who you are. Take a man’s work away from him and it’s like you’ve stripped him naked in the middle of Times Square.
    That was one of the cool things about being inside. Didn’t matter who or what you were before you got there. All that mattered was HERE and TODAY. Because EVERYONE has been stripped naked. As I’m riding the subway I find myself eyeballing some sharp, together guy and wondering how he would do in there. Not too goddamned well, I think. Because all he knows about is his own unreal little universe. He doesn’t know about being in the cage with us. He doesn’t know about REAL.
    It was her legs I noticed first, E.
    I was standing there on the platform waiting for the downtown train, which not many people do at six in the evening. Most of them are heading back uptown for home. Suddenly she came striding on through the turnstile toward me, her and those legs of hers. They were long. They were bare. They were tanned, which is unusual in December. None of those big fat hiking boots neither. She wore a pair of low-cut moccasins that showed off her ankles to full advantage. Her stride was a man’s stride, long and athletic and self-assured. A tall girl, at least five-feet-ten, with short black hair that she parted on the side like a boy. She had on a short leather skirt and a torn denim jacket. Mostly it was her walk I got off on. Man, could that honey walk.
    Where she was going, I was going.
    I sat halfway down the car so she wouldn’t notice me. She was reading Backstage, which is some kind of show business newspaper. An actress, maybe a dancer. She was certainly hot enough. I figured she’d get off at Times Square. Maybe was in some show that was