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neighborhood. All of it.” He slapped the dashboard hard, nearly knocking over his royal orb air freshener.
    Pellam paid and climbed out of the cab, leaving the driver to his muttered curses. He walked toward the Hudson River.
    He passed dark, woody storefronts—Vinnie’s Fruits and Vegetables, Managro’s Deli, Cuzin’s Meats and Provisions, whose front window was filled with whole dressed animals. Booths of clothing and wooden stands filled with piles of spices and herbs packed the sidewalks. A store selling African goods advertised a sale on ukpor and ogbono. “ Buy now! ” it urged.
    Pellam passed Ninth Avenue and continued on to Tenth. He passed the shell of Ettie’s building, floating in a surreal grove of faint smoke, and continued on toward a scabby six-story, red-brick building on the corner.
    He paused in front of the handwritten sign in the grimy window of a ground floor apartment.
    Louis Bailey, Esq. Attorney at Law/Abogado. Criminal, Civil, Wills, Divorces, Personal Injuries. Motorcycle Accidents. Real Estate. Notary Public. Copies Made. Send Your Fax.
    Two window panes were missing. Yellow newspaper had replaced one. The other was blocked by a faded box of Post Toasties. Pellam stared at the decrepit building then checked to make sure he had the name right. He did.
    Send your fax. . . .
    He pushed inside.
    There was no waiting room, just a single large room of an apartment converted into an office. The place was jam-packed with papers, briefs, books, some bulky, antiquated office equipment—a dusty, feeble computer and a fax machine. A hundred law books, some of which were still sealed in their original, yellowing cellophane wrappers.
    A sign proclaimed NOTARY PUBLIC.
    The lawyer stood at his copier, feeding pages of legal documents through the wobbly machine. Hot sun came through the filthy windows; the room must have been a hundred degrees.
    “You Bailey?”
    His sweaty face turned. Nodded.
    “I’m John Pellam.”
    “Ettie’s friend. The writer.”
    “Filmmaker.” They shook hands.
    The portly man touched his coif of long gray hair, which was thinning reluctantly. He wore a white shirt and wide, emerald-colored tie. His gray suit was one size off in both directions—the pants too big, the jacket too small.
    “I’d like to talk to you about her case,” Pellam said.
    “It’s too hot in here.” Bailey stacked the copied papers on the desk and wiped his forehead. “The A.C.’s misbehaving. How about we retire to my other office? I’ve got a branch up the street.”
    Another branch? Pellam thought. And said, “Lead the way.”
    *   *   *
    Louis Bailey waved toward the doughy woman bartender. He said nothing to her but she waddled off to fix what must have been the lawyer’s usual. In a brogue she called to Pellam, “Whatcha want?”
    “Coffee.”
    “Irish?”
    “Folgers,” he replied.
    “I meant with whisky?”
    “I meant without.”
    Bailey continued. “So. The scans came back negative. The MRI or whatever. She’ll be fine. They’ve moved her to Women’s Detention Center.”
    “I tried to visit her yesterday. They wouldn’t let me. Lomax, that fire marshal, wasn’t much help.”
    “They usually aren’t. If you’re on our side of the fence.”
    Pellam said, “I finally found a cop who told me she’d hired you.”
    With an awkward squeak the door opened and two dark-suited young men entered, looked around with dismay and left. Bailey’s uptown office—the abysmal Emerald Isle Pub—was not the sort of place for a business brunch.
    “Can I see her?” Pellam asked.
    “Now that she’s in detention we can work that out, sure. I’ve talked to the A.D.A.”
    “The . . . ?”
    “Assistant District Attorney. The prosecutor. Lois Koepel’s her name. She’s not bad, not good. She’s got an attitude. Jewish thing, I think. Or a woman’s thing. Or a young thing. I don’t know which is worse. I threatened her with an order to show cause, they don’t take