I paced the length of the dog cages, trailing my hand from wet nose to wet nose. A skinny little greyhound looked up, head cocked like he was waiting for an answer. I closed my eyes and searched the waterfront, block by block, looking for black piers, but every one was brown, gray, or gone. I saw burnt-out warehouses, empty markets, abandoned saloons, and seamans’ churches that had been given over entirely to the creeping vines. I saw the pier where Copeland died, and shook my head, and continued uptown. I was nearly at the Borderline when I saw a sagging brick building that had once been almost beautiful.

“There’s a boardinghouse on Jane Street,” I said, “right by the water. Before the fence went up, it was a convalescent home for old sailors.”

“I don’t like that gleam in your eye.”

“The song mentions it for a reason.”

“The song doesn’t mean a goddamned thing! It’s just a bit of fluff, a tall tale of the deadly old Westside, meant to spook tourists into thinking they’d seen a slice of real New York. The moron who wrote it probably never stepped west of the stem in all his life.”

“It has to mean something.”

“No, girl. It doesn’t. Nothing we’ve done meant anything at all.”

I stood, wiped the crumbs off my dress, and offered him my hand.

“On your feet,” I said.

“There are cops on every corner, and far worse creeping around in the dark.”

“Please, Cherub. I’m going for a walk. Won’t you join me?”

“Well . . . If it means we don’t have to wash the dishes.”

We scraped the remains of our dinner into the dogs’ cages and set out into the night. Cherub leaned heavily on his saber and did not refuse my arm. His skin was hot, and the shadows stayed in their place. We worked our way up to Jane Street and down toward the river. At Greenwich we saw a patrol from the Fourth Precinct, their torchlight throwing long shadows down the avenue. The cops did not speak and did not sing. At the front of the pack, a sergeant led bloodhounds.

We stepped into a doorway. Cherub’s breath smelled of horseradish. I hoped the hounds could not smell it. Their sniffing drew closer, and his body tensed—either from fear, or because he was about to kiss me. In either case, it would have to wait. I turned my back to him and watched the dogs straining toward us. Cherub put his hand on my shoulder.

“Blasted dogs,” said the sergeant, tugging on their leashes. “Don’t know what’s got them fussing. Eat better than I do.”

A final yank made the dogs forget horseradish. The patrol continued north.

“Let’s wait here,” Cherub said, running his hand along the small of my back in a not-unpleasant way. “Just another minute.”

“Keep walking.”