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What, that we both like men? she thought, and was ashamed of herself.

“Actually,” Jerome said. “I’m just a teensy-bit ashamed of myself.”

“Oh?” She wished he-would go away.

“It will probably come as a surprise to you, but I am what could be called the neighborhood busybody,” Jerome said.

The reason I can’t get, or at least, stay, mad at him is because he’s always putting himself down; he arouses the maternal instinct in me.

“Really?” Louise said, mockingly.

“I’m afraid so,” he said. “And I really thought I was onto something with you, when you moved in, I mean.”

“Why was that, Jerome?”

“Because I know this apartment is leased to Wells Newspapers, Inc.,” he said. “And because you are really a beautiful woman.”

I’ve had enough of this guy.

“Get to the point,” Louise said, coldly.

“So I went to Daddy, and I said, ‘Daddy, guess what? Stanford F. Wells has an absolutely gorgeous blonde stashed in 6-A.’ “

“What the hell is this all about, Jerome?” Louise demanded, angrily.

“And Daddy asked me to describe you, and I did, and he told me,” Jerome said.

“Told you what?”

“What we have in common,” Jerome said.

“Which is?”

“That both our daddies own newspapers, and television stations, and are legends in their own times, et cetera et cetera,” Jerome said. “My daddy, in case I didn’t get to that, is Arthur J. Nelson, as in Daye hyphen Nelson.”

She looked at him, but said nothing.

“The difference, of course, is that your daddy is very proud of you, and mine is just the opposite,” Jerome said.

“Why do you say that?”

“Why do you think? My daddy knows the odds are rather long against his becoming a grandfather.”

“Oh, Christ, Jerome,” Louise said.

“I haven’t, and won’t, of course, say a word to anyone,” Jerome said. “But I thought it might give us a basis to be friends. But I can tell by the look on your face that you are not pleased, and I have offended, so now I will take my tent and steal away, with appropriate apologies.”

“I wish you wouldn’t,” Louise heard herself say.

“Pissed off I can take,” Jerome said. “Pity is something else.”

“I knew the cop who got shot,” Louise blurted. “More than just knew him.”

“You were very good friends, in other words?” Jerome said, sympathetically.

“Yes,” she said, then immediately corrected herself. “No. But I went there, to meet him, thinking that something like that could happen.”

“Oh, my,” Jerome said. “Oh, my darling girl, how awful for you!”