‘Good morning, Cormac. I’m sorry about crashing at your place last night. It was very unprofessional of me. I promise I won’t do that again. Please don’t tell the management company, otherwise, I’ll be fired.’

Cormac put his hand on the pristine green sleeve of his frock coat.

‘Relax, Brendan. To tell you the truth, I was glad of the company. I’ve never been one for staying anywhere on my own. As far as I’m concerned, you can stay any night you like while I’m here. Anyway, we’ve more important business to sort out than sleeping arrangements.’

Brendan’s expression indicated he took little comfort in Cormac’s reassuring response. Either that or something else was troubling him.

‘What’s up with your face, Brendan?’

He lifted his hand from the paper and pushed it across to Cormac. He showed him the list of Broadway theatres. He then ran his finger along the considerably longer list of ‘Off Broadway’ theatres. By the time he finished explaining that these lists didn’t include what was by far the longest list of all, the ‘Off Off Broadway’ theatres, which were not actually even on Broadway itself, but scattered all over this vast city of eight million people, Cormac was forced to take a seat next to him behind the desk. They sat in silence and stared at the page. Four long columns of theatres and shows occupied four-fifths of the page. Squeezed in along the right side was a single column where some critic was savaging the latest show to open at The Beacon. Cormac idly read the column to take his mind of the impossible task he’d set himself. He was glad he wasn’t part of the show being critiqued. Brendan stared blankly at the elevator as he spoke.

‘Cormac, she could be anywhere in the city. I’m not saying she’ll be impossible to find. I’m just saying it could take you weeks, months even, to find her. If she’s here at all, that is.’

Cormac finished reading the column. He felt the familiar activity in the pit of his stomach.

‘She could be anywhere in the city, I’ll grant you, but she’s not!’

‘I don’t understand Cormac?’

He pushed the newspaper over to him.

‘Look at the column on the right.’

‘What am I looking at?’

‘The writer’s name there on the bottom corner.’

‘B.J. Fitzgerald?’

‘Her middle name is Jane and her married name is Fitzgerald. It’s her, I can feel it! She’s not anywhere, Brendan. She’s right here in front of me!’

Brendan clearly did not share his enthusiasm.

‘Do you have any idea how many Irish there are in New York? There are millions! Do you know how many of them are called Fitzgerald? I’d guess thousands!’

Cormac was not daunted at the thought at all. Instead he was back on his feet and scribbling down the address for Bernadette Jane Fitzgerald onto the pad next to Brendan’s unconvinced and still shaking head.

‘Where is Amsterdam Avenue?’

‘Just off Broadway.’

‘How far is that from here?’