Davey says suddenly, “You could come back, you know. To the guild. To the 147 ½. Once a Hog, always a Hog. Turn yourself around. Get away from that crowd you work with. Do some good down here. I got a place on my crew. Young fella, West Indian, name of Jamie that we called Cheeto, he caught a mean burn on his legs from the lye in the concrete and he’s out for a good long while – and you know, a man a mile and all.”

Mookie shuts him down. “No. I’m good where I’m at.”

“Course you are.” Davey scowls. “Whatever. Fine. Go on out of here, then. We’ve got work to do.”

“Can I take the pig?”

“You could use the walk.”

Mookie growls. “Later, Morgan.”

“Fuck you, Mikey.”

Nora’s on her way to meet a Trogbody called Kortz – she doesn’t know him, but what she does know is that soon the shit is really going to hit the fan and that means she’s going to need someone to protect her. The Trogs are good at that. Loyal to a fault. Thick body, thick skull. Dumb as the rocks they’re made of, most times.

Reminds her of her father.

But then, as she’s crossing the street to hit the subway, the text comes in.

Nobody’s gonna b home come ovr <3

She smiles. Texts back: No guards?

The reply: No guards all clear

She texts back:

OMW

And then she is truly on her way.

It’s almost midnight when Mookie emerges, born out of the dark. Night in New York is never dark, not really; the sun may set, but the lights are always on. Traffic lights, streetlights, headlights, lights from many windows and many doors. All of it painting the sky in a rusty glow, an orange-brown smear that sometimes stands punctuated with pockets of other color – a blue wash from the tip of a skyscraper, a purple spotlight from some new club opening up. Muddy watercolors.

Even if all those lights went out, it’d still be brighter than the spaces beneath.

And so when Mookie once again rises into the world, he’s once more forced to narrow his eyes. Soon his brow hurts from squinting.

Sometimes he thinks: maybe I belong down there.

He knows he’s gotta call Casimir. Tell the kid something.

Should’ve never taken this job, Mookie thinks. Should’ve never told that kid I’d have a look. Because even if the Red is real, the Purple probably ain’t. And if it is, Mookie’s no closer to finding it – which means the old man is going to die and this coltish kid is going to end up as Boss. Worse, he’s going to blame Mookie for failing him.

Damned in all directions.

All that sits in his gut like a ten-pound barbell. The Red, the Blue, the search for Death’s Hand, the changing of the guard. It’s all too much for Mookie. He looks at his phone – again that thought: you better call Casimir, get it over with – and then swiftly pockets it. He’ll call the kid later. For now, he cleaves to comfort: his stomach growls like a starving bear.