Me, I was joining the two Wall Street gents in bending over their fallen friend, as the few cars out on the street right now were reducing speed and winding around us—nobody else stopping to help or offer witness info. People suck sometimes.

Colby, in his Burberry, was sitting up, holding his head with both hands, wincing, moaning.

“Vincent,” said one of his friends, leaning in, “are you all right, man?”

The other friend said, “Can you get to your feet?”

Colby managed to nod and, with the help of both his companions, rose and hobbled over to the sidewalk, where a few pedestrians and some other diners from the restaurant were gathered for a gawk. The accident victim kept one hand on the side of his head.

“Bounced…bounced,” the young man said. “Off the windshield. Shit, it hurts.”

“We’ll get you to the hospital,” the first friend said, “right now.”

That’s when I noticed Sheila had emerged from the restaurant. She was standing there, agape, a hand over her mouth. She seemed about to go to Colby, but then—for some reason—stayed put. Still, she appeared on the verge of tears.

The bartender showed up behind her. His expression was hard to read, but not impossible. Amusement flicked on his lips. That was a hint of a smile, all right. And reacting with even a hint of satisfaction at the sight of somebody who’s just been hit by a car, that isn’t normal. That isn’t typical. That sucked even more than usual for human behavior.

The bartender put a hand on her shoulder, supportive or pretending to be, and she patted the hand.

Was that redheaded hostess in the middle of two men? Such triangles can have their violent aspects. Women far less good-looking than Sheila Who’s-it have stirred up a shitload of harm without meaning to.

Pat came up to the little group supporting Colby, falling in next to me, and held up his badge in its leather fold, saying, “I’m a police officer. Captain Chambers.” He quickly took their names and jotted them in the notebook. Then he handed both Wall Street gents a card and asked for theirs. He would be in touch soon.

“I’ll take care of reporting this,” he told them. “Can anyone here say what make that vehicle was?”

The two gents shook their heads and Colby ignored the question, busy with his headache.

“Just a foreign job,” I said. “Ferrari maybe.”

One of the Wall Street guys, thinking it over, said, “Ferrari, yes—definitely.”

The other one was flagging a cab, and then they were piling Colby carefully in back and they took off.

Pat, hands on his hips, watched the cab drive away. “That guy is lucky to be alive.”

“Yeah.”

“Five’ll get you ten he’s a concussion case.”

“Yeah.”

He frowned at me. “Something bugging you, Mike?”

“Don’t know. Not sure.”

“Come on, buddy. Spill.”

I sighed. It was colder now and I snugged the trenchcoat collars up. “Just seemed a little…off to me.”