"You see," said Nobbi, battling on, "she's gone off before, like I told Mr. Glass. But never so bloody long. Not a word off of her. Nothing."

"Pretty girl," said Luke, "your Tracy."

"Yes, she's lovely," said Nobbi. "That's the trouble. These bloody blokes take a fancy to her and then they drop her, and there she is, in some bother."

"You're a pessimist, Nobbi."

"No, I ain't, but I've seen what happened before. And even Marilyn, now she's started. It was Christmas. It really got her down. Tray never even sent a card. She's always been with us, Christmas."

"Well. Maybe this is something special, Nobbi."

"Is it?" Nobbi stared Luke out, and Luke lowered his gentlemanly eyes.

"Hold on, old man. Here's our wine."

The girl had come, with a boy to open the dark green bottle, which was first displayed to Luke.

The cork came out with a rich pop.

"No, I won't taste it, it'll be just fine. Just pour, and leave the bottle."

The girl and boy went away.

Luke sipped his champagne.

"Exactly what I needed. Only flew in from New York this morning. And came straight from the airport here."

"Good of you," Nobbi muttered.

"Mr. Glass was very particular. He appreciates you, Nobbi. You've done some good work."

Nobbi recalled abruptly the very first job. The patched up wall with something behind it. Working at four in the morning, plastering to the rays of battery lamps. Ask no questions.

"And Mr. Glass," said Luke, "wanted me to see you, explain things."

"Look," said Nobbi, "I just want to know where she is. My girl. That's all. And I know Mr. Glass, with his contacts, he can—"

"Oh, yes, he can, Nobbi. Now go on. Take a drink. It's terrific stuff."

Nobbi looked at the champagne. He raised the glass and had a mouthful. Like sour fruit juice with Andrews in it. Star would have liked it, though. She had taste. He was just a pig.

"Lovely," said Nobbi.

"That's good. Drink up. We can have another bottle."

"Maybe," said Nobbi, "you're going to tell me they ain't been able to find her."

"Tracy? Oh no, Nobbi. No. We know where she is."

"Thank Christ for that."

"And she's absolutely fine, Nobbi."

"Where?"

"Ah, yes. Well, Nobbi. That's the problem."

Nobbi put down the laxative wine and set his fists on the table. He felt overdressed, his tie a garrote, and his waistband pressing. He was hot under the spotlights, and outside the ferns and gilded glass the reality of January murk lay on the street.

"Look, I don't want to offend no one. But I don't want no bloody nonsense. I asked Mr. Glass if he would find my Tray, and now I want to know—"

"You see, Nobbi, old man. Tracy is with someone a bit special. And we can't interfere. Mr. Glass wouldn't like it."

"Who the hell is it?"