“Yep. A Catholic priest. Some say a monk. In some radical urban order. Dedicated to vows of poverty and serving the poor and homeless.”

“Then I guess he still is.”

Rubio shook his head. “I can’t quite see it.”

“Why?” This could be treacherous ground. “What, he’s not, like, y’know, holy enough?”

He coughed longer this time and paused to spit again, then wiped his mouth with a scrap of cloth. “I’m guessing you weren’t Catholic. No, I’m sure you weren’t. But I was. And I knew embezzling priests, pill-popping priests, fornicating and pedophile priests, priests who were abusive or drunks. Think of a sin, they committed it. But even so, even the worst of them, they all had this . . . I don’t know . . . basic fear of God. With Rousseau, it’s like he’s doing the work God ought to be doing, if only he believed in Him.”

I wasn’t getting into matters of belief with Rubio. “What does it matter, as long as the work gets done? Not a lot of other people bothering.”

He shrugged. “Maybe it doesn’t matter.”

But I knew he thought it did. “Maybe you should stay in tonight, Rube.”

“Why?”

“You don’t sound too good.”

“Que sera. I drew the Flatiron. Don’t get that chance too often.”

“Sick and sweaty, and you’re still obsessing about architecture?”

“Architecture is my life,” he replied loftily. And then, “At least it was.”

You couldn’t ever tell Rubio what was good for him, so I nodded and linked elbows. “C’mon. I’ll walk you partway.”

NINE

We hiked uptown as night fell in earnest, taking the Second Avenue walkway just to 11th, where pavement poked above water for a single block. We dropped to street level and crossed over to Third, pocked and puddled but mostly above the tide.

“Plenty dry ground for us tonight.” Rubio was actually smiling.

“And new territory. I get to see real trees!”

Downtown, the trees had all drowned or been swept away in one surge or another. Or cut up for firewood. Even uptown trees struggled, with too-wet feet, whipped by coastal winds, unsure of what climate they were living in.

“Don’t let the novelty put you off guard.”

“Why would I?”

Now it was just us, maybe I’d tell him about the drugs I’d tried to cadge for him. The ninja girl didn’t have to figure in. But first, I downloaded my chat in the shower.

Rubio tossed his head. “Boss can’t take a little constructive criticism?”

“It’s not just Rousseau. Why else all that special treatment at breakfast?”

“I don’t care what those assholes think, if they ever do.”

“Rube, it’s not what they think. It’s what they’ll do to you.”

“Might does not make right,” he muttered.

“I’ll carve that on your memorial plaque.”