While Gaga was topping off those coffees, a slunky-looking stagehand she would come to call Sickblade, who the whole city would call that, was working an all-night shift at the Beacon, a 3,000 seat theater three blocks away on upper Broadway. He was part of a crew loading out a show that had wrapped earlier. 

He was standing at the open freight door, waiting for a forklift to get back here to hoist these crates of speakers and rigging for that punk English group he didn't think much of. Them saying they needed to get the stuff moving right away, along with their entourage and groupie squiffs, for their next big gig wherever. But, hey, overtime is overtime. And his little treat would wait. 

He had her handcuffed and gagged back in that abandoned subway tunnel where he'd made a nice nook for himself. 

His torture nook. 

His hellhole. 

How many of her kind had he quaaluded up and lured down there, and then buried behind those walls that were built back when the fare was a nickel? He'd have to do a recount to be sure. Couple dozen? He'd been at it a while now. 

One day they'd find out the actual count, when he'd let them know in his own good time just where to look. Then he'd watch and grin while the papers and tube went ape over it.   

He'd left those others, the three latest ones, in findable places, pretty much where he'd killed them. Left them to get a little press for himself, this dude they couldn't touch. Get some recognition. Like Jack the fucking Ripper reborn. He had a beautiful assortment of tongues now, if anyone cared to look. His trophy collection. Except then, of course, he'd have to kill whoever did look. 

But that one named Tanya, the one they'd found in Riverside Park, she wasn't his. Some asshole copycat had done her, and probably saved her tongue, too. 

"Watch your back." 

He turned and here came the forklift. He stepped aside and signaled the driver where to slip the tines under one of the crates. The guy did it OK for a change and got the thing lifted, turned a one-eighty and drove it out to the Peterbilt semi that would haul it and the other stuff off to wherever.  

So who killed this Tanya? 

Just watch – he'd be the one they'd try to nail for it, and the copycat asshole would skate away clean. Not that he'd have minded being the one who did her. 

Same way he wouldn't mind doing that bitch from his old hood. Who wouldn't even look his way back when he was growing up in that hole over on Amsterdam. She was a friend of a friend, had big ideas for herself, a prima fucking donna. Who him and the crew would be back here for tomorrow, first thing, setting up all that shit for her concert. 

Stefani her name was back then. Stefani something-something. Lived off Lincoln Center he remembered from when he followed her around one time, her never having a clue he had the hots. 

And now she's Lady fucking Gaga. 

                                                #          #          # 

After some more talking in the kitchen, some of it getting into Warhol and other artists who it turned out we both liked, but always coming back to the psychic stuff and that dream she had and to Tanya, we took our coffees and some bagels Gaga had toasted into the living room. Went over to a coffee table in front of a sofa where I put down my cup and plate and sat.  

"Can you play something for me on the piano?" I asked before she could sit. 

She hadn't expected that. Gave me a look and a little shrug and said, "I guess. What would you like to hear?" 

"I donno. Just something. I mean, how many people get a chance for a private performance from you?" 

She thought about it, then put down her coffee and went over to the Steinway. Sat on the bench in her bathrobe and started doodling around on the keys, played a couple of soft chords and looked over at me. 

"You happen to watch that concert I did with Tony Bennett? They put it on YouTube." 

I shook my head. "I have to say I haven't." 

She nodded and after some more doodling, segued the chords into a tune that was sort of familiar, but not one I could really place. 

"We're going to be doing more shows together," she said. "Mostly standard stuff. This is one it just hit me might be good for us to do." She smiled. "It's not by me, though. Harold Arlen wrote it." 

She settled into an easygoing introduction – I mean she really could play – and started to sing: 

This will be my shining hour

Calm and happy and bright

In my dreams his face will glower

Through the darkness of the night... 

She glanced over and I frowned. The glower got me. I was sure that wasn't the lyric. 

It was meant to be a romance song, but the way she sang that one line, and considering all we'd been talking about, it gave it a totally different meaning. Which, of course, was the idea. 

But still, it was beautiful, if kind of eerie. 

Like the lights of home before me

Some new someone watching over me

This will be my shining hour

Till I see him again 

She did some improv on the keys, playing in and out of the melody, and then sang the last verse again. 

After that she went on just like a cabaret pro into some other songs – no vocals, just smooth piano – and after a bit, after a long day, I guess I fell asleep. 

When I woke up I was stretched out on the sofa with the quilt draped over me. I rubbed my eyes and took a couple seconds to get my bearings. Wriggled myself up and looked over at the windows across the big room, across all that decorator furniture, and could see the sky just starting to get pink on the other side of the park.  

I heard some sounds coming from the kitchen, flipped off the quilt and swung my legs off the sofa. 

Gaga was already up making fresh coffee and feeding the cat. "You have a good nap?" she said when I walked in. 

"Pretty good. Thanks for the quilt." 

"What can I get you? Coffee'll take a minute." 

"There any o.j.?" 

"I'll see." She put a bowl of Friskies on the floor for the cat, which hadn't shown its face till now, went over to the fridge and took out a container of Tropicana and poured me a glass. 

"Thanks," I said when she handed it to me and I took a swig. "You always get up this early?" 

"I want to get a run in before the day gets crazy. I have a concert tonight. Which by the way..." 

She picked up a little envelope that had two tickets sticking out of it. "You can bring a date if you're free and want to come. Bring her backstage afterward. It might get a little raucous, not the same music you heard last night." 

I knew enough about her style to know she wasn't kidding about raucous. 

"Thank you, I'll be there," I said, taking the tickets. "You have any more dreams?" 

"Just one where I was in the sack with an oversexed boa constrictor." 

I stared. 

"Just kidding. Drink your juice and I'll go get changed. Pour us some coffee, I'll be right back." 

Twenty minutes later we were riding down in the elevator. The front elevator. Her in her running stuff, me in the same clothes as yesterday. 

When she first said she was going for a run, I thought, Are you nuts? Everybody and his goat will want to take a selfie with you. But looking at her now, in her baggy shorts and running shoes and Mets cap and glasses, them distorting her eyes and half her face, it'd be almost impossible to recognize her. 

But what about me, who the security people were sure to still be on the lookout for? 

"When the doors open," Gaga said, like she was reading my mind, "just walk right next to me, across the lobby like we do this every day. We go out the front door, turn right, and keep walking down the street. Don't stop, whatever reason." 

And that's what we did – walked right past the front desk, past the doorman in his uniform, and out onto Central Park West. Turned right and didn't look back. 

Halfway down the block, where people were on their way to the subway stop on Seventy-Second, where I'd be catching the train, I had to ask, "What if when you get back, they ask who I was?" 

"I never saw you before." 

When we got to the Dakota on the corner of Seventy-Second, the oldest (and maybe ritziest) apartment building on the Upper West Side, where John Lennon was living when he got shot, Gaga stopped at the light and turned to me in that totally uncool running outfit.  

"So," she said, "I'll see you tonight?" 

"Like I said, I'll be there." 

"Good. It'll be fun." 

She gave me a peck on the cheek just as the light changed. Said good-bye and waved over her shoulder as she jogged across the street to the park entrance. Fell in behind a group of runners heading for one of the jogging paths. Nobody gave her a second look. 

Lady of a thousand faces. 

                                                #          #          # 

I decided to walk home instead of taking the subway, save myself the couple bucks fare. Zigzagged the blocks going west toward the river, then walked down Ninth Avenue, hoping the further south I got that I wouldn't run into Curly Sasso before I could come up with a story for why we wouldn't be cashing in on that Warhol.  

I turned off Ninth onto one of the side streets that still had mostly old buildings on it from the days when Hell's Kitchen was true to its name. Turned mid-block into a narrow alley that ran alongside the old five-story Victorian brownstone that was the whorehouse I called home. Had been my official residence since our mother passed and Tanya brought me in to do maintenance in exchange for board.  

I had my own entrance at the bottom of the cellar steps outside in back, went down them and undid the lock, let myself in to what used to be the coal bin and was now, after a no-frills renovation, my burrow. It's main feature is that it's compact – bedroom, kitchen and bath all in one. I took off my jacket and tossed it on the hide-a-bed, noticed that someone had left a note for me there.   

It was from Szu, an Asian girl about my age who lived and worked upstairs. And who I'd given a key to, us having a flexible arrangement for spending time with each other. It said: 

I've been trying to reach you but your phone must be off. Call me or text. 

I'd left my phone turned off when I went on my Gaga expedition. Turned it back on and texted Szu. Got one right back: 

Meet me at Kahve soon as you can. 

Khave's Coffee on Ninth Avenue was a five-minute walk, had the best coffee and pastries in the neighborhood, so was a favorite with the girls. I wasn't surprised when I walked in to see the place jammed, the usual breakfast crowd. Wilma, one of the waitresses who knew me, lifted her chin toward a small table in back where I could see Szu was sitting by herself. Which was funny, because usually she had breakfast with Marla, them liking to play with the owner's pug dog. 

"Hi," I said, going over and took the seat across from her. "What's up?" 

"I'm not sure," she said, darting her dark eyes around like she was checking for trouble. 

"Well something's got you bothered, that note..."  

"Marla's missing." 

"What do you mean, missing?" 

"She went with this guy yesterday and hasn't been back." 

"So?" 

"So he was weird." 

"How? I mean, weird comes with the territory, right?" 

"Yeah, but this was different."  

"So tell me," I said, leaning back to make room for Wilma. 

She slid a steaming cup of coffee in front of me, waited to take my order. 

"Breakfast pizza," I said, and looked across at Szu. She already had coffee and shook her head. I looked back at Wilma. "We'll split the pizza." 

"You got it," she said and went to place the order. 

Back to Szu. "So?"  

"So I'm freaked about these murders. We all are. I mean like, Tanya was your sister, chrissake." 

"You don't think I'm freaked? And pissed?" 

"Of course, I just..." 

The table next to us glanced over. I lowered my voice. "So tell me about this guy." 

She took a sip of her coffee and brushed back a strand of her shiny black hair. "Well, for one thing, he was making a big deal about these great ludes he had. Like we didn't know what the fuck it was to get high." 

I sensed the next table glancing again and made a sign for her to keep it down. "You ever seen him before, this guy?" 

"Actually, yeah." 

"Where?" 

"I think he works around here. Maybe one of the theaters. I've seen him on the street couple times." 

"And Marla went off with him?" 

"Last I saw." 

I thought about Marla, knew she didn't like to pass up a good high. And if she could get paid while she was tripping? All the better.  

When Wilma brought the breakfast pizza, I cut it in half and gave one slice to Szu. She made like she didn't want it, took a bite, chewed it, took another bite and a sip of coffee and wiped her perfect little mouth. 

I finished mine in maybe three bites and thought about ordering another. 

"By the way," Szu said, "going back to your sister, God rest her..." 

"What about her?" 

"Did you know she was pregnant?"

        (To be continued...)