Vincent was pretty confident a three-on-one fight wouldn’t meet the VA physio’s conception of ‘taking it easy’. And he wasn’t his best. He’d left the hospital twenty-five pounds lighter than when he’d gone in, he still had shoulder pain, and he couldn’t run on his bad knee. His coat contents might afford some rib protection, though. He had a copy of Roth’s Exit Ghost in one inside pocket, and Martin Amis’s Time’s Arrow in the other—good second-hand hardbacks from Strand down on Broadway.

He said, ‘It’s a public street. I think I’m all right here.’ Trying to sound relaxed about it, non-confrontational. His gloved hands were too big to fit in his pockets, so he let them hang easy.

‘Vin, honestly, it’s cool. Don’t worry about it.’

The guy in the suit seemed to agree: raised a palm at Vincent and backed it up with a pointed look, dipping his chin. ‘Pal, fuck off. Last warning.’

The fat man with the headphones had moved up on Vincent’s right, nodding to his music, dipping his hand to hidden currents, bopping along with little twists of his feet. He was six–four, easy. Vincent didn’t move. He saw a shape in the rear window of the DeVille, and then a woman got out on Billy’s side.

Billy said, ‘Baby, baby, it’s fine—we’re gonna sort it.’

The woman didn’t answer him. She looked terrified. She said to Vincent, ‘Are you … can you please …’ And then she lost it, face crumpling, hands to her mouth as she sobbed. Billy Ellis tried to comfort her, but she shook him off.

The ratty guy said, ‘Damn, cool that bitch off.’

Vincent took a breath. The problem with this time of year was that people were still in their winter gear—fatso and the ratty dude wearing down jackets—and it was hard to spot a weapon. Concealed firearms were a penitentiary offence in New York, which meant that in general only cops and morons carried them. He wasn’t in a position to rule anyone out yet, though. Headphones man was still on his right, six feet away now, the DeVille and Billy Ellis straight ahead, the ratty guy and the blond man coming up on his left.

Vincent smiled, said to the woman, ‘It’s all right. Come and stand over here, if you like. We’ll call nine-one-one.’

That was all she needed. She ran to him then, tottering a little on her heels, legs constrained by a tight high-cut skirt, and it was easy enough for the man in the headphones to grab her on the way past, wrapping her up in one arm and pulling her close.

‘Pleasepleaseplease. It’s nothing to do with me. Ple—’ The word cut off as the guy clamped a hand on her mouth.