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Immaculate, fastidious, and desperately uncomfortable, Leo
Trude
made his way through Times Square. His custom-made Meledandri suit and tailored topcoat could not have been more out of place anywhere than here, in the midst of the porn parlors, derelicts, and drifters who somehow thrived on 42nd Street.

He resented having to walk, did Leo, but it was snowing lightly, traffic was totally snarled, and he was late for his meeting with the Duchess. Rarely did she ever contact him and on those occasions, it had been more than worth his while. Leo picked up his pace, contenting himself with the thought that he would not be with her long—he disliked the Duchess—he disliked all cripples and the Duchess certainly qualified. Blind with her head forever tilted left and old with black glasses and parchment skin and that giant killer dog she adored and—

—someone had recognized him. A drunk, leaning against the glass window of the fast food emporium. The drunk raised an arm as if to wave.

Trude
turned his head and hurried even fester.

Up ahead now was the Port Authority building and just behind it, on Ninth, was the Duchess
’
s tiny parlor.
Trude
crossed Eighth and continued walking quickly on the far side of the street from the bus terminal.

“
God bless you,
”
an old lady said to him.

Trude
ignored her, or tried to ignore her, but he was aware that he was blushing just a bit. Not enough so anyone would notice.

Anyone except himself. Angry,
Trude
stormed on. Ahead he noticed a
group of moronic Spanish youths in a doorway, probably wondering whom to mug next, whose lives to alter.
Trude
touched
his inside coat pocket without really meaning to, but he didn
’
t normally carry a thousand dollars in new bills in this part of town. The Duchess was expensive.

Value for money was always expensive.

He got to Ninth and crossed again, then moved down toward his destination. The snow was falling more heavily now, and he cursed himself for not wearing his homburg. His brown curly hair was wet and his glasses needed cleaning.

“
Please, sir,
”
a well-dressed woman said—a Jersey commuter most likely. She held out a piece of paper and a pencil stub.

Trude
kept on walking.

She walked with him.
“
I know you must think I
’
m intruding—
”

“
—you are intruding,
”
he assured her.

But she would not be denied.
“
It would just mean so much to my children.
”
She was pleading now.
“
My son … you
’
re a hero to my son. I mean that.
”
She hurried in front of him now, blocking his way.

Trude sighed.

“
Here. And bless you.
”

Trude scribbled quickly, handed it back to her. Then she excitedly ran across the street against traffic and entered the terminal. Trude watched, half hoping a cab might clip her. He was genuinely upset now, and he needed a moment before dealing with the Duchess, so he stepped under an awning, got out his Sulka kerchief, cleaned his glasses, mopped his hair, all the while contemplating his curse.

Was it his fault he looked like Henry Kissinger?

Ever since Nixon made the fat Jew (the Nixontan terminology) head of state,
Trude
’
s life had been intermittently annoying. Yesterday someone had confided to him on Fifth Avenue—a Wall Street type it was—that he had it on unimpeachable authority that Haig was on his way out and he, Henry the K, would soon be reannointed. When he had dined once at The Palace he had been asked three times where were his secret service men.

The outrage of course was that Trude didn
’
t really resemble the other man that much. Trude was thinner, taller, younger, had no Strangelovian accent. In fact, when he and Kissinger both taught at Harvard, Trude disliked the other man intensely, thought him a second-rate thinker with no real talent save self-aggrandizement.

But to much of the general populace, they might as well have been Chang and Eng.

Composed finally, Trude took the last few steps, walked into the Duchess
’
s parlor.

“
You
’
re late,
”
she said.

Trude looked at the thick black glasses and wondered again if she was, in fact, blind.
“
I could have been anybody,
”
he said,
“
I hadn
’
t spoken.
”

“
Your walk betrays you. You walk like an arrogant man.
”

Trude decided not to pursue that line of inquiry any further.
“
It
’
s snowing, I had to walk.
”

“
You don
’
t have to tell
me
that it snows—I know such things, I hear the snow fall.
”
Her voice had gotten louder.

Trude decided he didn
’
t much want to pursue that one either. She sat alone on the couch, her head tilted. Behind her was a beaded curtain. From back there now: a growl.

“
Come or stay as you wish,
”
she said.

“
I
’
m not sure I understand,
”
Trude began.

“
I was not speaking to you. He heard me raise my voice and he worried.
”

Trude watched the beaded curtains part and then the giant dog came toward him.

“
Stand still, there
’
ll be no harm.
”

Trude made very sure he stood very very still.

The animal sniffed him, then turned, curled up at her feet. But its eyes remained on Trude.

“
To business,
”
the Duchess said.

“
You contacted me. I came.
”

“
Did you bring money?
”

“
Some.
”

“
Did you bring a thousand?
”

“
A thousand means an ultra,
”
Trude said. No point in giving it to her without some prodding.
“
Are you sure? Have you proof?
”

“
Yes I am sure. But proof is your province.
”

“
True.
”

She held out her hand for the money.

“
What
’
s his name?
”
Trude asked before paying.

She dropped her hand. The Beast began to make its sound. Trude gave her the envelope. She took out the bills, counted them, running her fingers over and over the green paper.

Once the ambulance got Edith to the emergency room at New York Hospital, it became very soon apparent that She wasn
’
t going to die. There was so much blood that the work was at first feverish but that phase passed and the interns functioned as they usually did, with quick and telling adroitness. By the time she was finally wheeled to a private room, there was no doubt in any attending physician
’
s mind about her survival.