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the past fifty years it had sported a half-dozen cheap mail boxes haphazardly hung to the right of the front door.
    Leaded glass panels on either side of the front door had long ago been replaced by sections of plywood clumsily nailed in place. The address was 411, although the middle “one” was missing so it read 4 1. Two large, unwashed picture windows were on either side of the front of the house with the front door positioned in the middle. The stained glass window that would normally rest above the picture windows had been removed or stolen at some point in the distant past.
    A chain link fence surrounded the front yard and served to collect a fair amount of the shopping circulars and plastic bags blowing up and down the street. The pounded dirt area enclosed by the cyclone fence theoretically once supported a lawn. The front gate hung askew, wedged against the edge of the sidewalk and looking like it hadn’t been closed in years.
    Bobby climbed the three wooden steps onto the porch that ran across the front of the house. The broken bits of turned porch railing seemed reminiscent of the toothless grin on a Halloween pumpkin. A worn, overstuffed couch sat beneath one of the picture windows and from a distance of ten feet he could smell the mold on the fabric and stuffing. Empty beer cans and an empty half-pint of vodka were scattered around the couch. There was a hole in the trim around the front door where the doorbell used to be with two cloth-covered copper wires hanging out. The front door was unlocked so he turned the knob and stepped inside.
    Kate resided in unit 5, up three flights of stairs to what was originally an attic. Bobby had to stoop slightly due to the roof line ceiling when he knocked on her door.
    He knocked a second time and waited. A quick examination suggested the door had been kicked in more than once. The trim around the door was broken and had been half-heartedly repositioned. There were a couple of large footprints on the door just next to the wobbly knob. Each footprint sported a different tread mark. Bobby unconsciously wiped his hands clean on the back of his trousers.
    A low voice from behind the door growled, “What you want?”
    “I’m here for Kate Clarken.”
    “She ain’t here.”
    “I was supposed to pick her up.”
    “What did she do now?”
    “She has an appointment that she’ll get paid for. She’s not in any trouble.”
    What sounded like two locks unsnapped and the door opened partway until the chain on the inside stretched taut. A flushed face peeked out, though Bobby couldn’t determine if the individual was male or female. Hard to say how old, but if he had to guess he would have pegged the creature at maybe fifty.
    The face was bleary-eyed with a red nose heading toward purple. The hair was short, unkempt and looked like it was trimmed by someone wearing a blindfold. Sporadic facial hair coated the upper lip and chins.
    “She’ll get paid?” the voice growled still partially hiding behind the door. The individual was barefoot and wore faded jeans without a belt and a too-small grey T-shirt that partially covered a beer belly with stretch marks. The shirt was soiled with the remnants of various meals, although it was difficult to tell if they’d been on the way in or back out.
    “Yes. I’m supposed to pick her up and then give her a ride back. Do you know where I can find her?”
    “What are they gonna pay her for?”
    “I don’t know, exactly, it’s for some legal stuff. Look, I need to get her downtown so she can be interviewed. If I can’t find her she won’t get paid. Simple as that.”
    “She’s either drunk at Moonies, drunk at Foxies or drunk at Sexton’s, except Sexton’s is still closed on account of that trouble a while back.”
    “So, Moonies or Foxies?”
    “Maybe.”
    “I’ll check there. If I can’t find her I’ll come back here, if she shows up please have her stay put.”
    “Yeah, sure, that’ll work,” the creature gave a