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eyes goaded us with a look that said, You can tell me .
     
The weight of Charlie’s playful stare produced results. One stunning young divorcée, with enough cleavage to bury that bottle of wine, revealed, “I’m Jane, and I pee in the shower.”
     
Almost on cue, the handsome investment banker to her right confessed, “I’m Henry. And I pee in the shower.” It started a chain reaction around the table.
     
“I’m Sam.”
     
“I’m Crunch.”
     
“I’m Grove. And I pee in the shower.” In this manner Charlie Kelemen convened the first session of Shower Pissers Anonymous.
     
He had a gift. Successful and irreverent, Charlie made his friends laugh. There were times when his wit doubled us over. The abdominal spasms hurt until we came up for air. We howled at Charlie, at ourselves, and at the affectations of a society that glorified money, beauty, and youth. Ironically, the world seemed lighter around our fat friend who filled rooms with his outrageous remarks as much as his porcine waistline.
     
Charlie’s joy was infectious. We laughed with him, no matter how coarse his wit. Impervious to his blimp of a head and whale of a gut, he made us dismiss our own flaws. It felt good not to worry about what we ate or whether we had said the right thing. It felt good to join Charlie’s embrace of the two most satisfying words in the English language: “Fuck it.”
     
     
 
     
After the shark attack, I could no more say “Fuck it” than compete in the Tour de France. There were too many questions. How did Charlie’s arms and hands get cut in so many places? What about the cart tied to his leg? Who would do such a thing? It made no sense. Charlie had no enemies.
     
And Sam. What about Sam? I worried about her all weekend. She never returned any of my phone calls.
     
Message one: “Sam, I’m crushed. Please call me.” No response.
     
Message three: “I want to help.” No response.
     
Message six: “I’m starting to worry.” No response.
     
Even under the circumstances, it was not like her to avoid me. We were too close, friends since college. She had been Sam Wells then. We met at oneof those Harvard-Wellesley mixers that invariably married two ingredients: loud, pounding music and “fit-shaced” coeds buzzed on precoital cocktails. Sam and I never dated, but we stayed close all four years. It had probably helped that Sam and my girlfriend were roommates and best friends.
     
Hell, I had lived with Charlie and Sam for six of the last eighteen months. Un, Deux, and Trois, their three dachshunds named for the restaurant on West Forty-fourth Street, treated me like family. I walked the dogs far more than Manny, and he was the family’s driver and all-purpose runner. All of a sudden, it felt like I was cold-calling my best friend’s widow.
     
Late Sunday night NBC reported that Boston police had closed the New England Aquarium indefinitely. It was a crime scene. The anchor added, “Police will be contacting all guests, who numbered about five hundred people.”
     
“To pick sharks out of a lineup?” I asked darkly and without humor, knowing that the real culprit had two legs.
     
Who the hell did Charlie piss off? How long will it take the police to reach me? What am I missing?
     
By 11:30 P.M. Sunday I was still agitated by Friday’s events. But it was time to sleep. The markets closed for dead presidents but not for Charlie Kelemen. My alarm would sound at 5:30 A.M., the opening bell for another week at the office. From previous experience, I knew my professional life offered plenty of hiding places from grief.
     
     
     
     
     
 
     
     
 
     
     
    CHAPTER FIVE
     
     
 
     
     
 
     
     
 
     
Sachs, Kidder, and Carnegie (SKC) is a boutique investment bank specializing in mergers and acquisitions. Our headquarters are located in New York City at 610 Fifth Avenue. Inside, the ceiling-high windows overlook a skating rink to the west and Saks Fifth Avenue to the east. We have offices