Slot number thirty-seven’s open, Jake, care to step up to the plate? “Thanks, Mama, I’ve got some business to transact.” With a glance down her arm: Sure looks that way. She takes her hand out of my pants, straightens her hair. That business gets transacted, or not, you come back here and let Mama Lamia show you a little business of her own, complimentary. You take good care of yourself, Jakey. I don’t want a pretty boy like you to end up with central air-conditioning, if you know what I mean. “Thanks, I’ll be careful. Listen, Mama L., I’m looking for a girl from the neighborhood. You remember her—Consuela? Connie? Sweet girl, half Puerto Rican?” Jake, she’s not… “Yeah, yeah, Mama L., I know, I know. I know. Where is she?” She’s got some powerful relatives who don’t like her much, Jake. You know her mama was… “Yeah, I know all about that, Mama, I know all about it.” I hope you’re not— “I’m not, Mama. I would never hurt this girl, I just want to talk to her. Just tell me where she is.”

Mama Lamia thinks about it a long time, slips her hand into the Windbreaker, pats the butt of the .38. All right. The Uptown. You know the place? “I know it. She still dancing?” Uh-huh, that’s what I hear. Dances under the name Banana Flambé. “Banana Flambé? Oh Jesus Christ.” I know. But I hear it’s a good act. “She have a guy?” Lamia shakes her head this time. No.

“Thanks.” I kiss her on the lips. Watch your back, pretty boy. You know what they’re saying. “What’s that, Mama?” They’re saying you whacked that guy upstate. Jimmy decides he thinks it’s true, things could get ugly. “Don’t you worry about me and Jimmy, Mama L. I didn’t whack nobody. Yet.”

I drop by one of those discount stores on the main drag. I get myself a dark suit and some new wingtips. I head back and get a room at the Ambassador. I set the .38, loaded, on the edge of the sink as I shave my beard into a Van Dyke. I want to look good for her. I wonder if Connie will recognize me right away or if she’ll have to think about it, remember how I looked, remember who I was, what I meant to her once upon a time. I put on a black tie and slick my hair back. Day burns slow and steady into evening. I sit down at the tiny table, cheap wingtips propped on the windowsill, watching the world through the open window and the jail-cell matrix of the fire escape. I light an unfiltered Pall Mall and watch things go bloodred, shit brown, gray, dark gray, black. I get up and put on my hat.