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Keith meets Butch and Sundance







Keith was so absorbed in his reveries that it surprised him when he found himself outside his apartment building. He greeted Jesse at the desk and was headed to the elevator. “Mr. Jackson?”

Keith turned.

Keith can’t pull the trigger

Sandwiches finished, Keith and Kisa took their sodas and started walking toward the IRT. They got to the nearby entrance and then stood to the side, letting the mad foot-traffic come and go past them while she continued filling him in on her ex-husband’s sexual problems.

“Turns out the damn fool meant he was sex addict,” she said. “Like that guy from X-Files, you know?” Hubby swore he would get help with his problem.

Kisa fesses up to faking it

They sat on leather-cushioned wrought iron benches outside a gyro bodega in the small park behind the Chrysler Building. A stone’s throw, basically, across the street from Grand Central Station. Kisa dabbed a drop of cucumber sauce from her lower lip.

Kisa lured Keith into her hotel room

Keith had studied Kisa there in his London hotel’s lobby as they’d toasted his good fortune to be fully booked up back in New York and she’d sipped her drink. She had a marvelously girlish smile that thoroughly disarmed. They’d found themselves talking shop.

Along comes Kisa


As long as he was downtown, Keith decided to swing by Sheridan Square. If, for nothing else, to see what group of rabble rousers was protesting which social or political or corporate evil. Not that he gave a damn about injustice.

Keith knows what he wants but not how to get it

How in the hell do you get someone to want you back? Keith was always a firm believer that you can’t make someone want you. Which is why devastatingly gorgeous women never drove him quite as crazy as they did other guys in this line of work. You ran into them all time. If you developed a crush on one and didn’t know how to get over it when she didn’t have one on you, you were going to make yourself insane every time you saw her. Especially when she was with another guy — or, for that matter, a woman. A cover girl he knew from the theatre district made his pulse run hot. But he wasn’t the least bit interested. He learned to live with it.

What to do about Leslie?

Keith stashed his guitar at the studio and went for a walk to clear his head. He walked awhile, found himself at his favorite place to think and favorite place to not think —Central Park. One thing about it: If you’re anywhere in Manhattan between 59th St. and Harlem, you were only a few blocks away from the park. Lesli, he rued, hadn’t been any crazier about Helen than she’d been about the kid. She simply didn’t like women he admired.

Helen St. James lays down a winner

The guys were hunkered down in the studio lobby munching on sandwiches and chips, sipping beer. Cooling their heels, shooting the breeze. The last time they’d hung with Helen had been her send-off gig several weeks ago at Kenny’s Castaways in the West Village. It closed soon after and liars were already coming out of the walls, claiming they’d once upon a time played the venerated venue. Helen had, and the crowds had loved her. She strolled in wearing a baggy sweatsuit that covered up but couldn’t hide her fabulous full figure. Or her paunch. Didn’t have on a lick of makeup. Not even lipstick or eye-liner.