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The area was empty, which surprised her. In spite of her passion for the place, Edith well knew Bloomingdale
’
s little tricks—all the big stores had them. Macy
’
s, for instance, had a special crew that went out ahead of all furniture delivery trucks making sure no one was home so the furniture men could leave their
“
We were here, where were you?
”
notes. Well, Bloomingdale
’
s made it hard for you to shop. If there were ninety shoppers in the dress department, the salespeople all slipped down the stairs to shoes. If there was
a run on perfume, all those employees snuck to the buttons area.

“
Yes?
”
the necktie salesman asked.

Edith liked him immediately. He was one of those bright attractive young men who went to one of those wonderful sort of unknown schools, Colby or Bowdoin or Middlebury, and was getting his doctorate eventually.
“
I need a glorious red necktie,
”
Edith said,
“
but one with special properties.
”

“
We are very long today on glorious,
”
he assured her.
“
A truckload of glorious arrived from our Jersey plant. But you
’
ll have to be specific on the special properties.
”

“
It must be absolutely guaranteed one hundred percent gravy resistant.
”

He snapped his fingers.
“
Damn; sold the last one an hour ago.
”

They both laughed then until Edith got excited.
“
I
’
ve got it, I know what I
’
ll do,
I’ll
buy him a tie and then I
’
ll hand him another box with a bib in it.
”

The salesman said,
“
Lady, that is
funny.
”
He leaned on the
glass countertop and really started laughing. Finally, he bent
down, opened the side of the counter, and took out perhaps a
dozen silk ties.
-

Edith began to spin.

The young salesman blinked.

Edith took her muted brown cashmere scarf and held it out at both ends, spinning slowly around, her arms rising to above shoulder level, an awkward Pavlova.

Across the men
’
s shop, the suit buyer looked over.

Edith continued to spin, and her arms went higher, straight up now.

A woman from Scarsdale, who had been buying socks, began to scream.

The tie salesman began to run around the counter.

Edith
’
s hands were clenched now. Still high, her body still spinning.

The suit buyer rushed to the security phone.

Edith smashed her fists straight down toward the glass counter,
through
the glass counter, and, of course instantly there was blood and then Edith jammed her arms together, forcing her wrists into the shards of glass, twisting her wrists back and forth in rhythm.

The buyer dropped the phone, the lady from Scarsdale cratered, the tie salesman could only stand and watch now.

As Edith raised her arms up high again, palms facing her, the inside of her wrists close to her eyes, and as the blood bubbled down, any onlooker would, of course, have been shocked, but if that onlooker could have forced his way past the shock, forced his concentration onto Edith
’
s face, he might have wondered at the expression reflected there; was it possibly relief? Could it have been joy? Perhaps exultation
…
?

Haggerty stared down into the dead eyes of the red-haired woman in the blue coat and waited for the light-headedness to come. There were times, especially when he allowed himself more than several shots of decent whiskey, when his whole life seemed to have been nothing but shoot-outs and stake-outs and blood-baths and pain, and still he could not rid himself of the lightheadedness. Whenever he first looked at a new corpse it would unbidden come. Eric knew of his affliction, his wife had known. That was all. It wasn
’
t anybody
’
s business; besides, Haggerty didn
’
t trust a whole lot of people.

Two once, one now.

And here it came, so he Med a yawn, covering his face with his big hands, and though he felt giddy, he knew it would pass. And it did. He could stare down at the woman now, without fear.

Without much fear, anyway.

Around him on the dark steps there was considerable activity: coming slowly to consciousness, another woman, bits of broken glass or crystal by her. And working with their quiet efficiency, members of the Crime Scene Unit were doing their job. Taking pictures, ferreting out whatever might be useful: hairs, prints, fibers, skin, blood.

Haggerty picked up the dead woman
’
s purse, hesitated only a moment It always seemed to him like what it was, an unseemly invasion. Sometimes with women it was like a zoo in there, but he could tell as he opened this plain object now, that the corpse had been, when previously allowed to breathe, neat if not fastidious.

Her name was Alice Oliver. Librarian. Scarsdale. Single.

American Express. Texaco. Thirty-eight dollars
…
twenty-six cents. And a single seat for tonight, the sixth of February, 1981, for
A Chorus Line.

Alice my dear, Haggerty thought, it was a great musical, and I hope you
’
ve seen it already. What a shame it would be to wait all those years to see it and then
this
the evening of the show.

Haggerty had no interest in theatre, but he loved musicals. If he had a hobby it was that. He saw them all, not just the
Fair Ladys. Flahooley
—he
’
d been there for its expiration. And
Portofino. Buttrio Square. Thirteen Daughters. Kelly
even. One performance but he
’
d caught a preview. Not to mention his prize,
Breakfast at Tiffany
’
s,
which closed in midweek before it opened.

“
Oh,
”
Haggerty muttered out loud, because he found then, at the bottom of her purse, a small white envelope and inside were the remnants—frayed and faded and broken—of what had clearly once been rose petals. Haggerty stared at them, feeling guilty. I hope he loved you, Haggerty thought, or at the very least, I hope he didn
’
t break your heart. Usually, his mind didn
’
t range so close to the sentimental—

—but there was something about this body that bothered him. The
angle.
The
angle
of the neck. Of the broken neck—he was no doctor but surely it had to have been broken. He
’
d never seen a neck quite like that before, God knew what the weapon was, what siz
e
club. And he wanted to talk about the angle, speculate on it with Eric.

Only Eric was late. Haggerty glanced at his watch, blew on his hands, knelt down by the red-haired woman and waited in the February cold.

It was several minutes before Haggerty heard the familiar footsteps coming toward him. He was shivering now as he stood, looked at the approaching younger man.
“
What the hell kept you?
”
he said.

“
Your crap,
”
Eric said, and he shoved a pint bottle of colorless liquid into Haggerty
’
s big hands.

“
Not here, Jesus,
”
Haggerty said, looking around in an almost furtive way, quickly pocketing the bottle. It was DMSO and Haggerty practically lived on it now. He had bursitis in his right shoulder and arthritis in both hands and the DMSO had been his salvation, ever since he heard about the liquid one night on
60 Minutes.
It was a paint solvent, controversial, and illegal, at least
in New York. Haggerty talked about it a good deal after he
’
d seen the program and he wondered aloud to Eric if it would help his problems and sometimes they would pass drugstores that sold it even though it wasn
’
t legal and Haggerty would say again how curious he was as to whether it would help or not.

“
Buy some you
’
re driving me crazy,
”
Eric would urge, only Haggerty wouldn
’
t, and that was how things went until Eric realized the old man never would, because he
’
d been a cop for thirty-plus years now, immaculate, and what if he got caught?

So Eric bought it for him, scowling but dutiful, and Haggerty repaid him to the penny and what drove Eric almost round the bend was that stores never always had it—one week yes, then six months without—so he had to skulk around buying the liquid pints where he could find them.

Haggerty got instant relief and it kept his pain bearable. It was indeed a wondrous substance, DMSO, except for the garlic side effects. Not only did your breath smell of garlic, so did your body, and Haggerty took to concealing the former problem by becoming at his age a compulsive Dentyne man.

And he all but bathed in Aqua Velva. Not only did he rub it on his face after shaving, he kept some in the glove compartment of his car. And each morning he would soak his shirt in Aqua Velva, waiting for it to dry, enduring the odd looks that sometimes came his way …

He watched now as Eric knelt by the dead woman, studied the horrid angle of the neck. He looked up at Haggerty.
“
What do you think did it?
”
Haggerty said quietly.

Eric stood.
“
Pray it wasn
’
t a fist,
”
he replied, staring now at the fat lady surrounded by broken glass who was talking to the young patrolman who first reported the violence.

“
Us decent citizens are the backbone of the city,
”
the fat lady began.
“
How are we supposed to live here with the crime all around? Where were you when I needed help, giving a jaywalking ticket to a cripple?
”

“
We do the best we can, ma
’
am,
”
the young patrolman said.

“
All my hard-earned precious things, gone.
Gone,
”
she said, then she said
“
ouch
”
—this last referred to a piece of crystal that
jabbed Into
her as she changed into a different sitting position.

“
An ambulance should be here real soon,
”
the young patrolman
said, consolingly.
“
We
’
ll get you to a first-class hospital, they
’
ll check you out right away, you
’
ll feel a whole lot better ma
’
am, I can promise that
”

And now there were tears in the fat lady
’
s eyes.
“
I
had mementos,
“
she said.
“
Family memories. Heirlooms I was carrying— I
’
m not going to feel better, I
’
ll never feel better, they
’
ll probably check me out and find I got cancer.
”

“
Don
’
t work yourself up, ma
’
am; please.
”

Now the tears were streaming down her face,
“
Lemme tell you something: you
’
re young, you don
’
t know this yet, I
’
m old so I do —life is a bummer.
”

“
I understand why you
’
re upset, you
’
ve got every reason to be upset, but—
”

“
—
a bummer, you get me?
I support my family, I work seven days out of seven, when
’
s my reward?
”
Now she lifted her tear-
stained face to the sky.
“I’
m waiting, God
”
The young cop quickly handed her his handkerchief. The fat lady buried her face in it and made sobbing sounds.

Eric could not help applauding.

Her face snapped away from the kerchief, her eyes searching, bright with anger.

“
It
’
s me, Sophie,
”
Eric said, moving toward her.

“
Oh hey, Eric,
”
the fat lady said,
“
you on this?
”

“
It
’
s possible.
”

“
Good. Cause this
putz—
”
she jerked a thumb at the young patrolman—
”
he don
’
t know shit.
”

“
What
’
s going on?
”
the young patrolman said.

“
She was about to hit you for a loan of ten,
”
Haggerty explained.
“
That
’
s what the tears were building to.
”

“
You win some, you lose some, it never hurts to try,
”
Sophie said.

“
There is a shaky black man who works 34th Street,
”
Eric said.

Sophie cut in—
”
Jimmy the hat?
”

Eric nodded.
“
He and Sophie here are royalty.
”
He turned to the young patrolman.
“
The king and queen of shoplifters. The first time I ran Sophie in I was stunned—not by the amount—any
gonif
can steal a lot—but by the exquisite taste of what she
’
d
acquired
that day. But I never knew you to go in for crystal,
”
Eric said, pointing to the broken bits of glass surrounding her.

“
I
’
m innocent—I swear—I was mugged just like an ordinary person.
”

Haggerty looked at the young patrolman.
“
Maybe the ambulance is here.
”
He pointed up toward the street.

The young patrolman hesitated, then left them.

“
That
’
s fanny,
”
Sophie said then.
“
I thought it was him.
”

“
You thought what was him?
”

“
I smell Aqua Velva—figured it was the young guy.
”

“
I don
’
t smell any Aqua Velva,
”
Haggerty said quickly.
“
Get
on with your story.
”

“
Somebody stinks of Aqua Velva,
”
Sophie insisted.
“
I got a sensitive nose and it
’
s gonna make me sneeze.
”

‘
There
’
s no goddam Aqua Velva!
”
Haggerty said loud.
“
Now quit stalling.
”

Eric looked dead at her then.
“
We
’
re dealing with a murder, so don
’
t screw around.
”

“
Okay, okay, just—
”
She sneezed then. Then she did it again. Then she started to talk.
“
I was done for the day and heading to meet my girl friend at this bar on First.
”

“
Anything we can trace?
”

Sophie shook her head.
“
Watches and bracelets mostly. Nothing real unusual.
”

“
See the guy?
”

“
It happened so unexpected. I felt this pull when the hand went over my mouth and I tried fighting it but no way.
”

“
Color?
”

“
Couldn
’
t tell. He hit me and I went out except I heard—I think I did anyway, heard this woman yelling to stop it. Then I drifted. He murdered her?
”

“
She was gonna see
Chorus Line,
”
Haggerty said.

“
Can I have her ticket?
”
Sophie asked.

“
Your stock,
”
Eric told her,
“
just went down.
”