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Pentagon?” I ask, truly astounded.
    â€œLike I said, our style here is to infiltrate and advise. Not just in New York, but all over America,” Gold says with a grin.
    I am speechless. I honestly had no idea. This country is a millennium younger than ours, but man, do they know how to handle their own.
    We turn onto a quiet side street, just one block long, nestled between two larger avenues. The brownstones here look homey, and the street is squeaky clean, like its inhabitants take pride in their hidden haven.
    â€œAll that is to say,” Gold says, as we walk up a set of concrete steps to a green door with a big number 16 in brass letters in the middle, “the numa population has exploded here since 2001. Things seem to be coming to a head, and something has to be done. Something like what happened in Paris. That’s why we need you to go there.” Gold turns from me and rings the doorbell.
    â€œBut,” I begin, and then I stop, because the door is opening and above us stands Frosty, in all her copper-skinned, raven-hairedglory. I haven’t seen her since the drug bust and have a feeling that that isn’t a coincidence. I know she’s been around—she’s obviously been avoiding me.
    Evidence: Her face lights up when she sees Gold, but when I step from the shadows behind him, out comes the permafrost.
    â€œAva, my dear, how good to see you,” says Gold, and steps up to give her a good old American hug. So. Frosty Whitefoot has a first name. Trust old-fashioned Gold to fly in the face of current convention and use it.
    He lets go of her and turns toward me. “You remember Jules Marchenoir,” he says.
    â€œYes. We walked together his first week. Took down those numa on Bushwick,” Ava says stiffly, putting her hands on her hips as she stares down at me.
    â€œOh yes, I had forgotten,” says Gold. “May we come in?” Even he has noticed her reaction to me and is waiting, puzzled, for her to stop body-blocking the door and invite us in.
    â€œOf course,” she replies, shaking her head as if clearing a fog, and steps aside to let us pass. She shuts the door and double-bolts it before ushering us into a large room with mid-century minimalist couches arranged around an old-fashioned fireplace.
    One of those dogs that looks like it has a full-on shaggy mustache lies on a rug in front of the chimney, and upon seeing us rolls onto its back to have its belly rubbed. Gold obliges, adjusting his white suit in order to squat down, and baby-talks to “Vera” as he proceeds to massage the blissed-out pooch into dog heaven.
    Gold’s obviously been here before—he doesn’t give the room asecond glance—but I am mesmerized by its contents. Art. Everywhere. I can’t help myself: I have to look, and wander from picture to picture, inspecting them carefully. There are several examples of pop art by artists whose names sound vaguely familiar. A framed Velvet Underground poster hangs on one wall, signed, To Ava, my one true love (among many), Lou and under that, Sisters in crime: Ava + Nico . A Salvador Dali sketch stands framed on a table: a nude woman with a bouquet of flowers instead of a head, with the dedication, To the divine Ava , scrawled underneath.
    And above the mantel is the pièce de résistance: a giant silkscreen of Ava’s head by Warhol himself. In it, a patterned turban hides her hair, and her chin is raised as if in defiance. With her dark-copper skin, high cheekbones, and almond-shaped eyes, she looks like some sort of native warrior: but native to where, it’s not clear.
    â€œWho were you?” The words leave my lips before I can stop them.
    â€œDoesn’t matter,” she says, and Gold looks up abruptly from the dog-fest. He looks as confounded by her brusqueness as I am.
    â€œAva was a part of Andy Warhol’s Factory—she was his favorite for a couple of years,” Gold says, before she