“I don’t want to do a question about the goddamn New York Jets. I want to do a baseball question. I know baseball,” I protested.

“Jesus. It doesn’t matter what the sport is.”

“Of course it does, I’m not going to walk up to someone and say ‘So who do you like in the curling world championships? They say the ice is fast this year.’ Right bloody giveaway that would be.”

Dan laughed and then sighed.

“You know, Michael, sometimes I wish you weren’t so good at staying alive. Sometimes, I wish…”

“Better leave that thought unsaid. Joe Namath, he plays for the Jets, right?”

“Thirty years ago.”

“Ok, forget him. They can ask me what I think about the dodgy Yankees pitching rotation. And I’ll say: ‘I don’t think it stacks up against the Sox,’ how about that?”

“Fine, whatever you like. I’ll take care of it.”

“Thanks, Dan.”

“All right, hang tight. Sending some people to pull you out of yet another jam.”

“You love me really, I can tell,” I said.

I closed the phone, grinned. What Dan didn’t realize was that if you’ve been fighting for your life a few hours earlier you can afford to be a bit bloody glib.

I got some lunch, a heretical Irish stew that contained peas and sweet corn.

Went to the bog, washed my face, ordered a Bloody Mary, sat with my back to the wall, decided to check out the señoritas. New York was a paradise after four months in Lima. Not that the Peruvian girls weren’t attractive but there it was mere variations on a theme whereas here it was the choral symphony. Coeds, redheads, blondes, business-women, stewardesses, cops, women soldiers, and on the far side of the bar two skanks straight out of a Snoop Dogg video trying to tease a Hasidic man by kissing in front of him. The man, me, and about fifty-two hundred other people trying not to look. Blond hair, long legs, white stilettos, pretty faces. Russian. Touching each other on the ass and toying with each other’s hair. You didn’t get that in Lima either.