“Where is he?” I ask.

“I don’t know. I never had him.”

“Yet you had Patrick Moore.”

“I did, yes. But not like you think.”

He leans forward and grabs his cup of tea.

I ask, “How long was Patrick Moore in your employ?”

“That’s just it,” he says, taking a sip from the cup. “He never was.”

I cross my legs. “Please explain.”

“You killed my men,” he says. “Three of them.”

“Are you still looking for a confession?”

“No, I’m telling the story. I’m starting at the beginning.”

I sit back and beckon him to continue. Fat Gandhi doesn’t use the delicate handle of the teacup. He embraces it gently using both hands, as though protecting an injured bird. “You never asked my men why they approached Patrick Moore, did you?”

“There was no time,” I say.

“Perhaps. Or perhaps you overreacted.”

“Or perhaps they did.”

“Fair enough, mate. Fair enough. But we’re getting off track. I’m going to tell you what happened. You then decide where we go from there, okay?”

I nod.

“So this kid, this Patrick Moore, he shows up on our turf. You understand about that sort of thing, don’t you, Mr. Lockwood? Territorial disputes?”

“Go on.”

“So my men heard about it. You could be right. They may have been too heavy-handed; I don’t know. I wasn’t there. But that was their job. I’ve learned that on the streets, it’s sometimes better to be heavy-handed. To overreact.”

I hear the echo of my own self-justification. It does not faze me in the least.

“So they braced Patrick Moore. I assume they decided to make an example of him. Then you appeared. You acted in such a way as to protect him. But tell me, Mr. Lockwood, what did Patrick Moore do?”

“He ran away,” I say.

“Exactly, my friend. He ran. Everyone ran. Including Garth.”

“Garth?”

“The young man with the dog collar.”

“Ah,” I say.

“Garth naturally reported what happened. It got back to me. I called him. He told me about this new kid showing up on our turf and then how some effete gentleman disposed of them.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Effete?”

“His word, not mine.”

I smile. I know that’s untrue, but I let it go. “Continue.”

“Well, you can imagine, Mr. Lockwood, what I thought. Three of my men slaughtered over what seemed a small territorial dispute. I don’t know about America, but here that kind of thing doesn’t just happen. I concluded that someone—you, sir—were declaring war on me. I concluded that the boy, Patrick Moore as it turned out, was part of a setup—that he was working with you to test my strength and resolve. Do you understand?”

“I do.”

“And to be candid, I didn’t quite understand it. Those streets aren’t all that profitable. So I put feelers out for the boy who ran away. Patrick. Garth said that he heard him utter a few words and that he sounded American. That confused me even more. Why would Americans be out to get me? But from there, I put out the word.” He puts down the tea. “May I be immodest for a moment?”