The tension gnawed at his empty stomach. After turning on the tap to fill the tub with water that was a little too hot, he quickly reheated some leftovers in the microwave and carried them into the bathroom. Boiling himself alive was strange therapy, but he found that it was the only thing that kept his mind off his desperate thirst for alcohol. The red hot Szechwan leftovers served to crank up the heat internally, and he hoped the feverish double dose would drive Diane from his mind long enough for him to get some sleep. Gasping as he lowered himself gingerly into the tub, he steeled himself against the pain. Sadism, he thought, did have its benefits.

Brrrrrrrring!

Brrrrrrrrring!

The phone jerked Harry out of a nearly meditative state brought on by his carefully made self-torture. His eyes darted to the clock on the counter and he quickly calculated that he had been cooking for nearly an hour. Having refilled the tub twice with freshly heated water, he remained in a constant sweat. The dripping strands of his long hair hung into his eyes and he felt slightly dizzy as he lay prone and still in the punishing water.

Even so, he didn't get many calls these days and the curiosity was enough to rouse him. He plodded, steaming and naked to the phone, just as the answering machine picked up.

"Harry, this is Rudy. I don't know if you've heard or not, but I thought you oughta know right away. That Kirkendall character is dead. He's dead, Harry, shanked like the rat he was. This is good news for you, pal, and you'd better make the most of it."

Harry wiped the sweat from his face and ran his hands through his hair, slicking it back away from his face. Don had been locked up in prison with the Dominicans and this turn of events lingered as a possibility for months, but Harry had never dared to count on it. He replayed the message again just to be sure, and then walked to the window and spoke to Diane who was out there somewhere, "Good news for you, too, honey." She, of course, couldn't hear the sarcasm and relief in his little endearment, but he felt good saying it out loud just the same.

Leaning his head against the cold glass, he took a deep, cleansing breath. Steam continued to rise from his glowing skin and his palms left large, foggy prints on the window as if a ghost had tried to press through the glass on its way out. Then in a compulsive flurry of motion, he dashed through the apartment, yanked on some pants and hauled a bundle of clothes down to the alley. Aided by a can of lighter fluid, Harry Denby ignited his loathed courier uniform and stood triumphantly over it as he watched it burn.