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In the lower right corner was a picture of a white…haired guy smoking a pipe and smiling。 He looked like a good…humored fuck； probably Irish； eyes all crinkled up and these white bushy eyebrows。 And the headline over the photo…not a big one； but you could read it…said NEFF SUICIDE STILL PUZZLES； GRIEVES COLLEAGUES
For a second or two I thought I'd just skip News Plus that day； I didn't feel like ladies in lingerie after all； maybe I'd just go home and take a nap。 If I went in； I'd probably pick up a copy of the Dispatch； wouldn't be able to help myself； and I wasn't sure I wanted to know any more about that Irish…looking guy than I already did 。 。 。 which was nothing at all； as you can fucking believe I hastened to tell myself。 Neff couldn't be that weird a name anyway； only four letters； not like Shittendookus or Horecake； there must be thousands of Neffs； if you're talking coast to coast。 This one didn't have to be the Neff I knew about； the one who loved Frank Sinatra records。
It would be better； in any case； to just leave and e back tomorrow。 Tomorrow the picture of that guy with the pipe would be gone。 Tomorrow somebody else's picture would be there； on the lower right corner of page one。 People always dying； right？ People who aren't superstars or anything； just famous enough to get their pictures down there in the lower right corner of page one。 And sometimes people were puzzled about it； the way folks back home in Harkerville had been puzzled about Skipper's death…no alcohol in his blood； clear night； dry road； not the suicidal type。
The world is full of mysteries like that； though； and sometimes it's best not to solve them。 Sometimes the solutions aren't； you know； too eventual。
But willpower has never been my strong point。 I can't always keep away from the chocolate； even though I know my skin doesn't like it； and I couldn't keep away from the Columbus Dispatch that day。 I went on inside and bought one。
I started home； then had a funny thought。 The funny thought was that I didn't want a newspaper with Andrew Neff's picture on the front page going out with my trash。 The trash pick…up guys came in a city truck； surely they didn't…couldn't…have anything to do with TransCorp； but 。 。 。
There was this show me and Pug used to watch one summer back when we were little kids。 Golden Years； it was called。 You probably don't remember it。 Anyway； there was a guy on that show who used to say 'Perfect paranoia is perfect awareness。' It was like his motto。 And I sort of believe that。
Anyway； I went to the park instead of back home。 I sat on a bench and read the story； and when I was done； I stuck the paper in a park trashbarrel。 I didn't even like doing that； but hey…if Mr。 Sharpton has got a guy following me around and checking on every little thing I throw away； I'm fucked up the wazoo no matter what。
There was no doubt that Andrew Neff； age sixty…two； a columnist for the Post since 1970； had mitted suicide。 He took a bunch of pills that probably would have done the trick； then climbed into his bathtub； put a plastic bag over his head； and rounded the evening off by slitting his wrists。 There was a man totally dedicated to avoiding counselling。
He left no note； though； and the autopsy showed no signs of disease。 His colleagues scoffed at the idea of Alzheimer's； or even early senility。 'He was the sharpest guy I've ever known； right up to the day he died；' a guy named Pete Hamill said。 'He could have gone on Challenge Jeopardy！ and run both boards。 I have no idea why Andy did such a thing。' Hamill went on to say that one of Neff's 'charming oddities' was his plete refusal to participate in the puter revolution。 No modems for him； no laptop word processor； no handheld spell…checker from Franklin Electronic Publishers。 He didn't even have a CD player in his apartment； Hamill said； Neff claimed； perhaps only half…joking； that pact discs were the Devil's work。 He loved the Chairman of the Board； but only on vinyl。
This guy Hamill and several others said Neff was unfailingly cheerful； right up to the afternoon he filed his last column； went home； drank a glass of wine； and then demo'd himself。 One of the Post's chatter columnists； Liz Smith； said she'd shared a piece of pie with him just before he left on that last day； and Neff had seemed 'a trifle distracted； but otherwise fine。'
Distracted； sure。 With a headful of fouders； bews； and smims； you'd be distracted； too。
Neff； the piece went on； had been something of an anomaly on the Post； which sticks up for the more conservative view of life…I guess they don't e right out and remend electrocuting welfare recipients after three years and still no job； but they do hint that it's always an option。 I guess Neff was the house liberal。 He wrote a column called 'Eneff Is Eneff；' and in it he talked about changing the way New York treated single teen mothers； suggested that maybe abortion wasn't always murder； argued that the low…ine housing in the outer boroughs was a self…perpetuating hate machine。 Near the end of his life； he'd been writing columns about the size of the military； and asking why we as a country felt we had to keep pouring on the bucks when there was； essentially； no one left to fight except for the terrorists。 He said we'd do better to spend that money creating jobs。 And Post readers； who would have crucified anyone else saying stuff like that； pretty much loved it when Neff laid it down。 Because he was funny。 Because he was charming。 Maybe because he was Irish and had kissed the Blarney Stone。
That was about all。 I started home。 Somewhere along the way I took a detour； though； and ended up walking all over downtown。 I zigged and zagged； walking down boulevards and cutting through parking lots； all the time thinking about Andrew Neff climbing into his bathtub and putting a Baggie over his head。 A big one； a gallon…size； keeps all your leftovers supermarket…fresh。
He was funny。 He was charming。 And I had killed him。 Neff had opened my letter and it had gotten into his head； somehow。 Judging by what I'd read in the paper； the special words and symbols took maybe three days to fuck him up enough to swallow the pills and climb into the tub。
He deserved it。
That's what Mr。 Sharpton said about Skipper； and maybe he was right 。 。 。 that time。 But did Neff deserve it？ Was there shit about him I didn't know； did he maybe like little girls in the wrong way or push dope or go after people too weak to fight back； like Skipper had gone after me with the shopping cart？
We want to help you use your talent for the betterment of all mankind； Mr。 Sharpton said； and surely that didn't mean making a guy off himself because he thought the Defense Department was spending too much money on smart…bombs。 Paranoid shit like that is strictly for movies starring Steven Seagal and Jean…Claude Van Damme。
Then I had a bad idea…a scary idea。
Maybe TransCorp didn't want him dead because he wrote that stuff。
Maybe they wanted him dead because people…the wrong people…were starting to think about what he wrote。
'That's crazy；' I said； right out loud； and a woman looking into the window of Columbia City…Oh So Pretty turned around and gave me the old fish…eye。
I ended up at the public library around two o'clock； with my legs aching and my head throbbing。 I kept seeing that guy in the bathtub； with his wrinkled old man's tits and white chest…hair； his nice smile gone； replaced by this vague Planet X look。 I kept seeing him putting a Baggie over his head； humming a Sinatra tune （'My Way；' maybe） as he snugged it down tight； then peered through it the way you'd peer through a cloudy window； so he could see to slit the veins in his wrists。 I didn't want to see that stuff； but I couldn't stop。 My bombsight had turned into a telescope。
They had a puter room in the library； and you could get on the Internet at a very reasonable cost。 I had to get a library card； too； but that was okay。 A library card is good to have； you can never have too much ID。
It took me only three bucks' worth of time to find Ann Tevitch and call up the report of her death。 The story started； I saw with a sinking sensation； in the bottom right…hand corner of page one； The Official Dead Folks' Nook； and then jumped to the obituary page。 Professor Tevitch had been a pretty lady； blond； thirty…seven。 In the photo she was holding her glasses in her hand； as if she wanted people to know she wore them 。 。 。 but as if she'd wanted people to see what pretty eyes she had； too。 That made me feel sad and guilty。
Her death was startlingly like Skipper's…ing home from her office at UNM just after dark； maybe hurrying a little because it was her turn to make supper； but what the hell； good driving conditions and great visibility。 Her car…vanity license plate DNA FAN； I happened to know…had veered off the road； overturned； and landed in a drywash。 She was still alive when someone spotted the headlights and found her； but there had never been any real hope； her injuries were too grave。
There was no alcohol in her system and her marriage was in good shape （no kids； at least； thank God for small favors）； so the idea of suicide was f