“This was the whole northwest corner,” Richie said, stabbing the file folder with a finger. “This old lady owned six lots. She lost it all for two years’ water and taxes.”

“And interest and legal fees and—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.”

“I’m not interested,” Ted finished.

The weasel pouted. “Okay, but if I go after it myself, will you back me?”

“Back you? You mean with cash?” Ted cut off a laugh. Richie was serious.

“If I can cut a deal.”

“Why don’t I just take the money and burn it?”

“Not to buy her out. Just enough to show her I’m for real. Say, fifty grand. Or a hundred.”

“You’re dreaming.”

“I got some ideas.”

“Really?” Ted flipped open the file again. “How do you propose to find a ninety-three-year-old woman named Barbara Miller? That’s like looking for John Smith. According to the docs, she never once appeared in court.”

“Yeah, but . . .”

“And if, by some bit of magic, you do locate this lady, and she’s not so far into dementia that she can’t understand the words you’re saying, how are you going to keep her from running to her lawyer here? What’s his name?”

Ted shuffled pages until he found the settlement page listing all of the parties involved and their representatives. The name jumped up and smacked him between the eyes. Jacqueline Clavette. He slammed the file closed.

“What?” Richie cried.

“Nothing. Look, Richie, keep the twenty-five bucks. I don’t care. But leave this alone. Can you?”

“You know this lawyer.” Richie tried to take the file.

Yes, he knew the lawyer all right. Jacqueline Clavette was married to Ted’s ex-wife.

Richie snatched the file. “We’ll talk again, and when we do, I’m gonna show you how this shit gets done.”

The talk never happened. Three days later Richie was dead.

-2-

-2-

The refrigerator hummed impatiently. Ted had been staring at the near-empty shelves for long minutes, imagining a carton of eggs, some cheese, butter, a red pepper or maybe a few mushrooms. He slowly closed the door on the remains of a six-pack of Stella, a near-empty container of steamed brown rice, and a carrot. If he wanted breakfast, he would have to put on pants and shoes and go find it.

It was raining lightly but enough to sway his decision. The Honduran bodega was closest. He pulled his sweatshirt up to cover his head and dashed down the street.

There was a line at the counter, and the three tables along the wall were already full. It took an agonizing fifteen minutes to get his to-go order of two foil-wrapped chorizo baleadas and a medium black coffee.

As he fumbled with his key at the street-level door to his building, a familiar voice called, “Molloy, my friend. He’s gone.”