The grenade fell in the middle of the floor. At least I assume it did, but at that point Jimmy and I had burst from the building into the parking lot out back. Miracle of miracles, a heavy-duty dumpster stood right in our path. I seized Jimmy’s arm and threw us both inside.

Would that there had been a soft, disgusting bed of garbage to break our tumble, but the dumpster was inexplicably filled with scrap metal. Still, this metal only broke skin; it wasn’t slicing through our innards. When the grenade went off, debris clattered against the dumpster walls but didn’t hit us. As soon as the clattering stopped, I yanked Jimmy out of the dumpster.

“You got a car?” I shouted.

With surprising presence of mind given what had just transpired, he pointed at a faded orange junker just up the block and hurried us toward it.

We were in the car. We were driving away. We had gotten away — this time.

A good ten minutes of shell-shocked silence later, Jimmy spoke — stammered, really. “Woah. I mean, woah. That was close. I swear, the fuckin’ nutjobs these days.”

I looked at him, keeping my expression neutral. He didn’t know that the grenade had been meant for me; he thought it was just another crazed citizen taking out his desperate fury in random acts of destruction. Good. I would let him think that. Meanwhile I quickly recalled the room I’d just been in, the room that was now so much city debris. The killer had obviously followed me, watched me through the window, but might not have paid any attention to Jimmy, even though Jimmy had noticed him. It was worth a shot. “Um, Jimmy?”

He turned, placed a hand on my knee, patted it gently. It was way too personal and intimate a gesture for a half hour’s acquaintance, but then nearly getting blown up makes people do surprising things. “You OK? Where should I take you, by the way? Guess I should have asked you sooner. Can I drive you home, or…well…” I waited for him to suggest an alternative to “home.” I certainly couldn’t take a chance on going back there now. Once again, I needed to move on. “Don’t, um, take this the wrong way, but I could take you my place and cook you something. I mean, that was intense. I figured maybe we could both use a nice meal. Food makes you feel better, don’t you think?”

I had to laugh. The world was clobbering itself senseless and this fool wanted to play chef. “I think we’d have to eat about sixteen meals straight to feel better about that,” I said. “Sure. Why not. Take me to your stove.”

He laughed, too. “I know you think I’m probably nuts, right? Opening a restaurant in times like these.” I looked at him, surprised. Maybe he wasn’t such a fool after all. He shrugged. “People need to enjoy life. Even folks living in the shittiest conditions on earth still sing songs, tell stories, make pictures in the dirt. And New Yorkers? They go out to eat.” He stopped the car. “Here we are, m’dear.”

He had parked in front of a fire hydrant; when I raised eyebrows questioningly at him he pointed to a sticker on the car window. “NYPD. Another gem I got from the courier service.” He winked.

I played along and grinned, but meanwhile I quickly scanned the street. It didn’t look like we’d been followed; it was possible the killer hadn’t seen us escape, or at least hadn’t seen me in this car. Then again, he had proved himself nothing if not thorough. I hustled into Jimmy’s building, a classic walk-up, up five flights into a surprisingly sunny loft apartment. I hadn’t even realized the sun was shining at all when we were outside. Things like that — things that aren’t matters of life and death — tend to escape my notice these days. Yes, Jimmy, I thought wryly, people need to enjoy life, but it’s kind of hard to do at the moment.

I sat at the small table in Jimmy’s kitchen watching him bustle about. It was clear he knew what he was doing there; the question was what I was doing here — and what Jimmy really intended. I had a feeling. I decided to put it to the test. “So. Jimmy. I’m not really a courier, you know.”

“Oh?” He seemed genuinely intrigued, though he didn’t stop whisking whatever it was he had put in a stainless steel bowl. “I sense a juicy story.”

I stared hard at him. “Jimmy.” He turned. “What do you think I was there for?”

He shrugged. “Could be anything. Fake fishing license, maybe. You’re one of those avid flyfishermen…fisherwomen…fishperson. But you got caught using dynamite last year, so…”

“Jimmy!”

“What!”

I got up, walked to him, put my face six inches from his. “You really don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“I’m Asian. I look like a teenager even though I’m obviously not. And I needed to get some fake documents. Put it all together, Chef.”

Boy, this one was either a terrific actor or terribly dense. There was a slight variation of the puzzled look he’d had in the waiting room as he tried to put it all together. “Are you saying you’re one of those lab babies?”

“Lao Babies,” I corrected without affirming it.

He looked at me for a moment and then nodded his head. “Cool. Very cool.” He turned back to the stove. “What kind of cheese you want in your omelet?”

“Cool?”

“Don’t have that, but there’s some nice feta here.”

“Fuck the feta. If your guess is correct, do you realize what that means?”

“You’re a lot older than you look. I’m down with that.”

“Uh, yeah, but…” I took a deep breath and decided to go for it. “It also means that a lot of people would pay a lot of money to know that. Money that could buy you a whole damn chain of restaurants. It means that grenade wasn’t a random one; it had my name on it. It means that another could come sailing into this kitchen any minute. Kablooey. Omelet everywhere. Us everywhere too.”

“Well, then, we’d better eat fast and prevent that from happening.” He slid the eggs from the pan to a plate and handed the plate to me. “Oh, wait!” He grabbed a handful of chopped chives and tossed them confetti-like over my plate. “Must garnish.” He put one chive bit stuck to his finger on the tip of my nose. “Makes everything even tastier.”

An hour ago we could have been dead. We could be dead an hour from now. Still somehow we had time for this, flirting, teasing, this sexy silliness. And time for omelets. I had to admit, it looked very good.

As did he. I moved my face even closer to his. He smiled. Licked the chive off my nose.

We ate.

+

“How did this guy manage to find you?”

Later. Post-omelet, post-coital conversation doesn’t tend to be cozy for long these days. There’s too much toughness, hardness, too many sharp edges out there for that. “Do you really want to know all that? Do you really want to get involved?”

“Hey, I am involved. I saved your life, remember? And fed you brunch.” He leaned into my face. “And then.”

“Indeed. And then.”

I smiled, but already the glow was gone as both of us were thinking of this morning, and how it might happen again the next morning — or sooner. “I saw him kill another Lao Baby, a friend of mine. And he saw me, and figured I must be one too.”

He let that sink in. “I’m sorry.” We listened to city noises for a moment. “Who was she?”

p=. +

Maggie was the third, and it went off like a dream, exactly how he’d always imagined it. The first two weren’t nearly so good. With the first he panicked and nearly ran off without completing his mission. He did complete it, but he was disgusted with himself for his lack of control over his emotions. The second had almost gotten him killed as he fumbled with the clip, the girl — woman — whatever it was — looking at him, puzzled and even mildly concerned, as though he’d started convulsing or choking. That, too, had been a humiliation. But Maggie’s had been perfect, and what’s more, he had been able to set his sights on number four immediately after.

It had been like a dance: open door, pull pin, thrust sack at her, see the surprise, the quizzical look, leap nimbly away to safety and wait. Like Fred Astaire, mixed in with a bit of comic-book super hero. And when he looked up and saw the next one, the way she stared at him as though every mutant cell in her body had just been electrocuted, he couldn’t wait to start that dance again.

Jane. Such a sweet, simple name for such a vile, undeserving creature. The very thought of that name infuriated him, for he had failed completely with her. He had not known there was someone else in the room with her, and had peeked in the window merely to ascertain her proximity. When he was spotted, he panicked — again — and pulled out the grenade before he was ready. He had no choice but to use it, breaking the window and lobbing it onto the floor, even though he knew it was futile; to ensure complete success the grenade had to be right on its target, not just nearby.

It was only going to get harder after this, harder to find them, harder to keep from getting caught. But he knew where she was. He knew he could follow her. And when the time was right, he knew he had to be successful in his next attempt.