I waved my hand, and Lamb brought more clams—briny, sweet, and cold as ice. I ate slowly, but Bex raced. She is a woman of many qualities. She is the finest painter on the Westside of course, with an eye that puts the old masters to shame. She has a mane as thick as brambles and arms so hairy they are almost apelike. Of the fifty or sixty thousand who call the Westside home, she is one of the few I am never sorry to see.

“So you got nowhere at Thieves’ Market,” she said, rubbing the stolen glove between her fingers. “What next?”

“Second Avenue in Yorktown, a few blocks of Chrystie Street on either side of Delancey. After that, Long Island City. If I can find the shop where Copeland bought it, I’ll replace the right hand. It shouldn’t take more than a few days’ work.”

“Gilda, I swear, you are too good for these pathetic little mysteries.”

“Tiny mysteries.”

“Fine. Tiny mysteries. Good lord. For two years I’ve put up with your tiny mysteries. Who left the cap off the ink bottle? The case of the missing corkscrew. The puzzle of the unaccountable stain. What I would give for a nice, honest murder.”

“Murders are not worth the trouble.”

“Why not just follow the captain?”

“Do you think it’s likely he’ll pay his leather dealer a visit in the next few days?”

“No. But it’s not those gloves you care about. A bitter old man, forsaking his family and drinking himself to death? Where have I heard this story before?”

“Bex, no.”

“Don’t you want to know what’s eating him alive? Follow him. Find out. It could be fun.”

“That mystery is bigger than I can handle.”

“You underestimate yourself, darling. You’re quicker than you think.”

She raised the bottle to her lips, and was about to drink when, just to see how quick I was, I snatched it from her hand. I took a long pull and slapped it on the table. The sound drew the attention of the sleeping drunk, who ran his tongue over his teeth and eyed the half inch of liquor remaining in the bottle.

“How ’bout a bite?” he said, massaging the tarnished gold shield mounted on his hip.

“Go back to your nightmares, Thorne,” said Bex.

“Please, Gilda? For an old friend of your father’s.”

“Don’t you dare speak his name,” I said. Thorne didn’t answer. He just looked at me, thirsty to the point of dying. I poured him a drink and pressed it into his hand. “Swill in good health.”

He retreated to his spot in the corner to nurse his ersatz rye.

“That man is a disgrace to the NYPD,” said Bex. “And I didn’t think the department could get any more disgraced.”