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The result, say, of a storm of bad publicity due to a local bigshot dying from our food. Hypothetically, of course. I stared at the snapshot above the untouchable guitar case and reminisced, my door locked so nobody could walk in and catch me sautéing in melancholy. My dad had taken the picture at Murray’s suburban home in Hicksville, about an hour’s drive from Manhattan on the Long Island Expressway. I think it was one of our family’s annual Passover get-togethers. I’d been nine or ten years old, which would’ve put Murray in his early forties.

And tapped her shoulder. ” she said, turning to face me. ” I asked. She flashed an enormous lipstick smile, her drink tray in hand. “These here folks are having a blast! ” I thought worriedly about the absent pastrami and didn’t comment. ” I said, showing her the text message on my phone. ” She studied the backlit display. “Done,” she said. I looked at her. , it was best to be specific. “Aloud,” I said. ” She smiled at me some more. “Sure,” she said. ” Which I’d already managed to figure out. ” Check again, I thought.

At the bottom, in bold metallic Sharpie ink, he’d written: Keep Ridin’ Gwennie! My Heart To Yours Uncle M My eyes lingered on the inscription. After a while, they started to sting. “Keep ridin’,” I read aloud, plucking the cigarette out of my mouth to hold it between my fingers. I was trying. I really was. My ex-husband had scammed his investors out of their life savings even while cheating on me with a flock of silicone-accessorized pole dancers. When he got caught redhanded at both, we’d all wound up sharing the losses.