"Who He!" Aimee called over the burst of studio applause. I love that program. I get every question right. I could make a fortune if I could get on." She backed up, feeling for a chair, her eyes fixed on the screen.
Jake Lennox's consciousness ignited, herringboned, then sprang into life.
"'Who He!'" he burst out, stunned and bewildered. "That's my show."
Clarence Fox stole back to Philadelphia.
"That's my show," Lennox repeated.
"How do you mean, your show?"
"I write it. I own a piece of it."
"That's a hot one," Aimee laughed.
"Don't you understand? It's my show. I'm Jake Lennox. I write that—I—What the hell am I doing here? I'm supposed to be at the theater."
Lennox turned and stumbled out of the apartment. He clattered down the brownstone stairs and fell half a flight. It was bitter cold on the street. Snow and rain were falling, and the air was like ice-water. Lennox ran west to 3rd Avenue, the great exposed nerve of The Rock's delirium. It was empty. The bars exuded urine-colored light. The antique shops blazed with cut-glass chandeliers. Alongside him, a darkened barber-pole still revolved its red and white spiral with the sound of guillotines.