The night went by like a taxi cab speeding down Second Avenue. He slept for a few hours more.He knew nothing of the hour. He awoke later reaching across the bed. The stillness of the bedroom offered no response. He urinated in the bathroom, and yet he could not hear a sound, save for the splashing against the toilet bowl. He checked himself in the mirror and discovered clotted scratch marks about his face. He found the alarm clock flung far across the room. Three p.m. glowed in digital sanity. He turned on the light. His heart jumped. The stained sheets of his bed had not only been tangled but also ripped. He called for his wife. He searched through every room but could find neither his wife nor the baby Imam. He had missed a day’s worth of work and checked his messages. Two messages from Rothenberg asked him to meet at the downtown office. These messages were not that important compared to the third faint message from someone with very broken English. It said:“Hello, I’m reaching. They were all so lucky, he thought. He idly wonderedhow long it would be before he grew tired of Maria, but dismissed thequestion as unimportant. For now the poor paralegal who could only afforda dingy rental place in the cheap side of town was his mistress, andMaria was good enough in bed to keep his interest. For now. The secret toit all was that Roger was not in love with any of the women he had sexwith or dated, even his wife.Roger Ashbridge was only in love with himself, and always had been.That doting parentage and constant reassurance of how special he was hadmade Roger self-confident, then arrogant, and finally narcissistic. Hewasn't just God's gift to women, in his mind. He was God's gift to theworld. The fact that he had cruised through life like it was the openroad had reaffirmed his belief that not only was he handsome and cleverbut also that he could get away with anything. Even if some people weresmarter than him, he had the charm and arrogance to outwit them and.
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