We stopped at the Chase Bank on Astor Place and she gave me one hundred dollars. At Kinko’s, I printed up a blurry but recognizable portrait of the two lovebirds.

At Fourth Avenue, we waited for a cab to take her to Penn Station and from there she’d catch the next train to Philly.

“Are you really a professional?” she asked.

“I’m not licensed,” I said, “but I’ve been at this a while.” I had been reading pulp fiction off and on for years. It was an apprenticeship of sorts and was the little bit of truth that made the lie sound sincere. I may have been having a bipolar episode. “The first thing I’m going to do is find Vincent and when I find Vincent, I’ll find your sister.”

She got in a cab and as I closed the door, I said, “I’ll call you later tonight.”

“Okay,” she said, and she looked scared and dumb. But she was a sweet kid. The cab drove off and the six o’clock light was beautiful, day darkening into night.

I stood on the corner and called information and got the number for Lakes Bar.

“Lakes.” It was a woman’s voice, young-sounding. I could hear a jukebox in the background.

“Is Vincent there?” I asked. “The bartender.”

“He comes in after me, at eight,” she said. “Works eight to four.”

“Okay, thanks… Listen, I owe him some money and I’m going to bring him by a check. Can you spell his last name for me?”

“What? Yeah. I know. It’s a weird name. I’m pretty sure there are two t’s. E-T-T-I-N.”

“Thanks so much,” I said, and hung up.

People will give you anything if you just ask directly. I called information and there was only one Vincent Ettin listed in Manhattan, and this Ettin still had a landline and lived at 425 West Forty-seventh Street. I had two hours to kill before he was to be at work at eight. Maybe I could find him beforehand, so I called the number and got an answering machine. It was a no-nonsense message: “This is Vincent. You know what to do.” It could have been the guy in the picture or some other Vincent Ettin. I didn’t leave a message.

I walked over to West Eighth Street and took the A train up to Forty-second Street. When I got out of the subway the last of the light was gone and it was evening; 425 was an old five-story walk-up. Apartment 4F had the name Ettin next to the buzzer. I buzzed 4F. Nothing. I buzzed 2F. A voice, that of an old lady, came through the intercom: “Who is it?”

“Building inspector, let me in.”

“Who?”

“City building inspector, fire codes, let me in.”