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one of us to go with him. Somebody had to do the driving while he screamed.
    â€œ
Aaaahhh!!!
”
    He indicated by sign language that I should pull in at a grocery store, and sent me in to shop while he remained in the car, howling. Even in the frozen food section, over the Muzak, I could hear the echoes from the parking lot. About ten minutes later, Rootbeer joined me, cheerful as ever, as though he hadn’t been in the throes of agony thirty seconds ago. We bought $150 worth of groceries — enough to last even Rootbeer until Friday.
    â€œWhat happened?” asked Don when we got back.
    A five-hour explanation formed in my head. “Nothing,” I said. They wouldn’t have believed me, anyway.
    * * *
    The next morning we awoke to find Rootbeer Racinette lying dead on the floor.
    We didn’t even know at first, because he always flopped down to sleep wherever he happened to be standing. So we tiptoed around, careful not to wake him up as we showered and dressed.
    â€œAt least he isn’t snoring,” whispered Don. “Did you hear him last night? I thought the building was going to come down. The Phantom was knocking on the wall.”
    The Peach bent over Rootbeer. “The reason he isn’t snoring,” he said, his face pale, “is because he isn’t breathing.”
    We freaked out. The three of us crawled all over Rootbeer, poking, and prodding, and feeling for a heartbeat that wasn’t there. He was dead as a mackerel.
    I admit it. I burst into tears, blubbering out the whole story of last night. “It’s all my fault!” I wailed. “If I’d stopped him, he’d be alive now! Joe would have stopped him! But I let him do it! And now he’s dead, because of internal injuries or something! What are we going to do?”
    Ferguson shook his head. “Call the police, of course.”
    â€œNo police!” came a howl through the ventilation duct. This was followed by pounding footsteps on the stairs, and then Plotnick burst onto the scene, red-faced and wild-eyed.
    He took in the situation with a horrified gasp. “Oy! How could this happen to me?”
    â€œTo
you?!”
I shrieked. “To
you?!
A guy is
dead!”
    â€œOkay, okay,” said Plotnick. “We’re in this together. We need to be reasonable. Let me think.” His brow furrowed, and unfurrowed. “All right. Take him out, throw him in a field, and to hell with him, God rest his soul!”
    I was horrified. “We can’t do that!”
    â€œYes we can. I don’t want hassles over this. First police, then the coroner, then the reporters — no. Not in my building.”
    â€œLook, Mr. Plotnick,” I argued, “if we throw the body in a field, the police will suspect foul play. When they trace it, they won’t just hassle us. They’ll toss us in jail!”
    â€œI’m an old man,” Plotnick shrugged. “Maybe by the time they trace it, I’ll be dead.”
    But by then, the Peach had already dialed 911, and the police were on their way.
    The next hour was a nightmare. I must have told the story about the two-by-four twenty times, first to the police, then to the reporters, then to our fellow tenants. Plotnick went to lie down, and the officers, seeing an elderly man obviously overcome by emotion, were brief and kind. They assumed that he was upset over the untimely death, never guessing that his collapse was due to their own presence.
    I was destroyed as I watched the uniformed attendants carry Rootbeer’s body on two stretchers out to the ambulance. Don, Ferguson, and I followed like an honor guard. God’s Grandmother sobbed uncontrollably, and Wayne Gretzky’s Sister dabbed at her eyes with a napkin. The Assassin removed his hat respectfully. Even Plotnick joined us, coming out of hiding, since the law was gone. The back doors of the ambulance swallowed Rootbeer up, and the vehicle pulled away slowly.