Billy was a black guy from Alabama, up here by way of New Orleans, having moved down after Katrina to help with the re-build. What was intended as a short visit turned into a nine-year stay. Then, two months back he suddenly felt like a change, and here he was: New York City. Vincent got the feeling the simple story was hiding some interesting details, and after a few weeks on the job he began to wonder if trouble had something to do with Billy’s move.

A couple of times now Vincent had seen this old Cadillac DeVille pull up by the construction fence along the road. The driver was a ratty-looking white guy in his forties who’d sit there with the window open, arm along the sill and acting grim, trying to let people know he could make a handful of himself if required. Vincent thought it was an interesting contrast: the car polished to a shine, looking like it just rolled off the lot, and the driver a similar vintage but not faring nearly as well.

The passenger in the Cadillac was a black guy of about three-hundred pounds, big enough that he looked like he had a life ring on under his shirt. His job, as far as Vincent could tell, was to get out and perform a little dance behind the car, headphones on to help him with the beat. He had rhythm, definitely: he’d lay down a few slow moves with his eyes shut—little shoulder jerks, maybe a few tight turns on the balls of his feet—while the driver practised his stare and smoked a cigarette. It would only take a few minutes for Billy Ellis to see them and go over, and he and the other black man would talk through the fence, and then the two guys from the DeVille would drive off, and Billy would come back on the job looking worried. The second time it happened, Vincent asked him what the problem was, but Billy just waved him off, said it wasn’t library business. Fair enough. But the third time Vincent saw the DeVille was the following Monday, and that’s when he decided Billy Ellis had a problem.