Tad delivered a typewritten note to my office at three in the morning. It was time-stamped. He gave it to the front lobby security guard and it was routed to my mailbox. I opened it at my desk. I stayed in my office most of the day, slightly paranoid someone might ask about the ugly cut above my lip which Tad had inflicted. It was too severe to be a shaving nick, and I didn’t want to create a tale about falling in the shower.
The envelope, which had on its pristine white front an off-grayish, dried smear of what I imagined to be Tad’s saliva, aroused me terribly. My hands shook for several minutes as I sniffed at the paper, trying to imagine him. Inside was a pale sheet of paper with a Brooklyn street address, and then: Be there at 7 P.M. tonight.
I would of course do exactly as instruct
