"I killed a man."

Uh oh.

Not exactly what I wanted to hear. The man who'd graced my office first thing on a Monday morning had a pug nose and cauliflower ears. Still, it seemed a kindly face, a not at all hostile face, yet certainly not the type of face I'd like to have angry at me. Joe Balfour, as the gentleman claimed to be, was a simpleminded but amiable lout, who probably only killed at the behest of undesirable companions who led him into evil against his will.

Of course, I was making all that up. All I really knew about Mr. Balfour was he was an impediment I had to circumvent before setting out on my actual job, chasing ambulances for a negligence lawyer. I had three cases lined up already today, with doubtless more to come. When he had appeared in front of my door Mr. Balfour had seemed a distraction at best. With the announcement that he had killed a man, he had become a definite liability. But, it occurred to me it might not be advisable to tell a walking mountain range with a track record for homicide to go to hell.

"Is that right, Mr. Balfour?" I said. I tipped back in my desk chair with a casual disinterest that implied that most of my clients had at least one homicide on their record, and probably my pizza delivery boy did as well. "Tell me about it."

He shrugged. "Not much to tell. I was young, I was drunk. I was in a barroom brawl. A man hit me and I hit him. I got up. He didn't."

I waited for more, but that was it.

"How long ago was this?"

"Twenty five years."

"What happened to the case?"

"I was arrested and charged with murder. My lawyer plea-bargained it down to manslaughter. I got three to five."

"What'd you serve?"

"One and a half."

"Uh huh," I said. I couldn't help wondering what three to five meant, when time served was a year and a half. I shuddered to think how bad you'd have to behave to wind up serving five.

"So what's your problem?" I said.

"Well, I have a daughter."

"Uh oh."

He looked at me sharply. "Why do you say that?"

"Well, if the two things are connected, that's trouble. I assume your wife and daughter don't know you have a record and someone's threatening to tell?"

He looked at me as if I were clairvoyant. "How'd you know that?"

"Just a lucky guess."

"So, what can I do?"

"There's only one thing to do. You sit your wife and your daughter down and you tell 'em just what you told me."

"I can't do that."

"I knew that too. Now, I'm gonna give you a little more advice, then I got an appointment in the Bronx. You say you can't do that, and I hear you, and I appreciate what you say. Now, what you need to do is step back and say, here's what happens if Idon't do that. And then start listing all the things that happen in that event. When you get to the part where your wife and your daughter find out what you did, try to explain to yourself why that result is preferable to the one where you sat down and told them."

He looked as if his mind was whirling, trying to follow all that. When he caught up, or at least appeared to, he gulped and said, "That can't happen."

"I'm glad to hear it. When it does, I'm sure it will console you to know that happenstance defied the laws of physical possibility."

He scowled. "Stop talking cute. I need your help. I wanna hire you. Whaddya say?"

"I told you. I have a job."

"How much does it pay?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"I pay cash, and I don't file ten ninety nines, and what you tell the IRS is between you and them."

Mr. Balfour reached in his pocket and pulled out a fat wad of bills.

"Now, do you want this job or not?"

I wanted the job.

You gotta understand. I am not the type of private detective you see in movies and TV shows who says, "There, there, Citizen," straps on his gun, and goes out and deals with the bad guy. I am a poor son of a bitch working my ass off to support my wife and kid. In New York City, that's not easy. Particularly if, as in my case, you have a liberal arts degree, which to date has been useful in pleasing my mother and serving as a bookmark in one of our family photo albums. In terms of a job, I am virtually unemployable. My skills are writing and acting. Oddly enough, it is not often that anyone wishes to hire me for either. Which is why I work the private detective shift. It is a permanent job-job. I do it for the money. And the money's not that good.

Mr. Balfour's money looked good.

I didn't grab for it, however. I leaned back in my desk chair, distancing myself from the cash, and said, "What is it you want?"

"I told you. To keep this from my wife and kid."

"And how would I go about doing this?"

"I don't know."

"That's less than helpful."

"I'm sorry. I'm flustered. Here. Take a look at this."

Mr. Balfour's briefcase was on the floor next to him. He put it in his lap, popped it open. He took out a piece of paper, folded in thirds like a letter, and passed it over. "This was sent to me at my office."

I unfolded the paper.

There was no date, no salutation, no signature. Just a typed message.

I know who you are. And I know what you did. Be at the Purple Onion Thursday night at 6:30. Wear a red rose in you left lapel. Don't fail me.

"This came in the mail?"

"Yes."

"Where's the envelope?"

"I threw it away."

I paused just long enough to let him know what I thought about that, said, "When did you get this?"

He frowned. "Yesterday. Why?"

"Why'd you wait till now?"

"I was figuring out what to do."

"You figured me?"

"You're near my office."

I considered, hopelessly conflicted. Mr. Balfour's case was nothing. Still, that pile of bills was awfully big.

I sighed. "Mr. Balfour, this is probably just a prank. Whoever sent this doesn't mention anything about a criminal record. My personal opinion is you don't need my help."

"Fine. That's very ethical of you. I disagree, and I want to hire you. At least until I know what this is all about. The meeting is tonight at six thirty. Can I count on your help?"

"You want me to hang out in the Purple Onion and keep an eye on you, and when this guy shows up, you want me to tail him?"

"No."

"No? Then what do you want?"

"I want you to be me."

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