As she rides by

happened to her, and who cares. From somewhere high above, Ethel Merman’s voice could be discerned, belting out “Everything’s comin’ up roses, but in your case it’s purple.” Bruises, as we all know, are caused by the rupture of blood vessels under the derma which, technically, has not been lacerated. Call them contusions, if you will. What we all do not know, at least I don’t, is why they change from the bluish-purple-puce tones after a few days to that evil greeny-yellow color... as for lacerations, I had a few, too, quite a few, enough to mention... ah, swirling eddies of idle thoughts as my submarine sank once again straight to the bottom of the tub, hereinafter known as the Red Sea, exaggerating only slightly.
    Then ‘twas choices, choices. I don’t mind some choices, like between one chili dog or two, or one Hawaiian shirt or another, or whether you start with the foreplay or finish up with it, but among the choices I’d rather not have to make as often as I seemingly did are between iodine or Mercurochrome, Darvons or Demerol, Band-Aids that are either too small or too big because you’ve used up all the proper-sized ones, and what to do with a useless right arm—go for sympathy with a sling or merely do what Napoleon did and tuck it casually inside your sports coat. There is no doubt that getting beat up is a gigantic drag, because it hurts, and nothing hurts like good old-fashioned pain; it’ll do it every time.
    So anyway, I poured stuff on me and over me and stuck sticky stuff here and there and plugged a hole or two and threw out the tattered shreds that were once my third-best cords and put some clothes on and fed and watered the dog and popped another pain pill for the road and then hit it.
    It was six-forty when I pulled up in the almost-empty parking lot beside the IMM building on Olympic, near the Civic Center , and coasted neatly to a stop in a parking place personally reserved for one James J. Frawley Jr., whoever he was. I climbed out, stretched gingerly, then, as requested, mounted the wide stairs and punched the “Night Inquiries” button. A voice squawked something at me. I said who I was. There was another squawk. After a minute or two a uniformed security man unlocked the glass portals, checked my I.D., let me in, locked up again, said, “This way, please,” and headed off to the bank of elevators, only one of which seemed to be in operation. In we went, and up we went. Out we got, down the hall we went, into an outer office we went, and then, after a knock, into a larger, much larger, inner office which contained, among other furnishings, a gorgeous old rolltop desk, behind which a man was seated, scribbling away. He got to his feet.
    “Thanks, Tom,” he said.
    “Anytime, Mr. Howieson,” Tom said. He departed. I crossed to the desk and Mr. Howieson and I shook hands. I must say, he was not what I expected. Like as not, nor was I to him, I dare say. Which was that whiskey company that used to feature distinguished-looking executive types at their ease, often in the library of some exclusive gentlemen’s club? Calvert’s, maybe. Howieson would look more at ease in a fishing camp; he was short, tanned almost black, wore his graying hair in a crew cut, and wore on his obviously fit frame loud check pants and a baggy madras jacket worn over a polo neck.
    “Beautiful desk,” I said.
    “Thank you,” he said. “It belonged to my father and before that to his father—they were both lawyers too, only they were more your smalltown general practitioners, not a big-shot corporate lawyer like me. Sit, please.” He led the way to a trio of well-worn old leather chairs that were grouped around a low table; he sank into one and I did likewise. “Cigarette? Cigar? Drink?” I shook my head. “Nothing? Coffee?” I shook it again. “OK,” he said. “That takes care of the amenities, it seems to me. Now let’s get down to business, Mr. Daniel.”
    “Right,” I said. “It is like this, sir. In the course of another investigation, the details of which I will not bother you with at this time, I came across a number of curious coincidences. I was a suspicious man to begin with, Mr. Howieson, even before I embarked on my present line of employment, due to a series of youthful experiences I will also not bother you with at this time, fascinating as they no doubt were.”
    “No doubt,” he said with a straight face.
    “And my present line of work has not, alas, removed