He groaned. It was impossible! He couldn't write. He couldn't even sit
for the hours necessary for writing!
A deal. He had to make a deal with Tzadi. Twenty a week for as long as
he was allowed to go on this way. Or thirty. Maybe even forty.
"Or kill the dirty little...."
His voice, hard and shrill, shocked him. He was standing, fists
clenched, body trembling, leaning forward as if about to rush to the
door and up the hall.
He made himself sit down. He laughed, but it didn't come out his
hearty, impressive laugh. It was a laugh he hadn't heard since college
days (except in dreams; nightmares of the past)--weak, frightened,
ineffectual and apologetic.
There was a knock at the door. He straightened in his chair, took a
deep breath, said, "Come ahead."
The door opened. Mr. Tzadi stood there, his round face solemn. "Before
you become too involved in your numerous and important duties, Der, I
would like to suggest that we have lunch together."