“Anyhow,” Grelich said, “we’re here to discuss this situation I’ve got, with this goy lodged in my head.”

No one had any ideas about it. They considered Ritchie’s suggestion that they all return to his apartment. But Solomon was tired and had an appointment in the early evening; Grelich had had enough argument for the day, and Esther was looking forward to her late afternoon television.

They all agreed to meet tomorrow evening, first at the East Broadway cafeteria, then, after Ritchie said he’d pick up the tab, at Ratstein’s.

Exhaustion ended the night for both Ritchie and Grelich. Ritchie had a long, dreamless sleep in his own bed.

In the morning, after Ritchie made coffee, they agreed that it was time to go downtown to the MMT sales office and find out what had gone wrong.

Grelich was feeling a little funny about this. His desire to kill himself had abated remarkably. In fact, his suicidal urge had vanished. Replacing it was an unexpected zest for life, the strongest he had ever known.

It was difficult to account for this. Maybe the medical procedure, even though it had not killed him, had driven philosophical despair out of his head. These problems, which had recently driven him to suicide, seemed academic to him now, even puerile. Why kill yourself because you can’t decide whether God exists or not?

Ritchie for his part wanted to own his own headspace uncluttered with Grelich. But he liked Grelich’s friends. Esther looked like she had been a classy lady. Solomon was interesting. Ritchie hadn’t known there were any black Jews. He wanted to find out how this had come about.

And there was Leiber, a possible agent contact.

Of course, Leiber was not a friend of Grelich’s, but Ritchie owed the meeting to his association—or amalgamation? —with Grelich.