“Every few weeks, the police come to our door. They barge in. They scuff the floors and upset the furniture. They always come asking the same question—where is Firecracker? And they never believe me when I tell them that I don’t know. If I knew, he wouldn’t be safe. If I knew, I wouldn’t be safe. Now get out, before I call the Sentinel and let them know that the police are so incompetent, they’ve resorted to housebreaking.”

The click of the pistol echoed through the room like distant thunder. It attracted their attention. I nuzzled the barrel through the carefully combed remains of Mr. Van Alen’s hair. Mrs. Van Alen leaned on the stove. Her hand crept toward a knife.

“No, Mrs. Van Alen,” I said. “Don’t bother. This is the end of the conversation.” She let the knife go. “Perhaps you don’t know where your son lays his evil head. Perhaps he does not call as often as you’d like. But you must have some way of contacting him, in case of catastrophe—such as two detectives breaking into your home and threatening your husband’s life.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I pushed the muzzle into the old man’s head.

“Fine—there’s a grocer on the corner. The owner is one of my son’s . . . he calls them lieutenants. He can get him a message.”

“Go now.”

“It will take him an hour to get here.”

“I can hold this gun all day.”

“You are a devil.”

I nodded. She left. I watched out the window and saw her walk to the grocery, looking not quite as proud as she had a few minutes before. I looked back, and Virgil stared with sad eyes.

“You can put that gun down.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“You handle it pretty easily for a girl who hates pistols.”

“I’ve grown accustomed to it.”

“When we bring Glen-Richard in, your case is finished?”

“Nearly.”

“I don’t think you should go back to the other side.”

“Virgil.”

“It’s no joke, Gilda. It sounds like . . . the way you’ve described that place, it sounds like hell on earth. It’s made you hard, harder than you need to be. A girl your age shouldn’t do work like this. She shouldn’t be so easy with a lockpick, with a gun.”

“You should see me with a broken bottle.”

“That’s not funny.”

“No, it’s not. And it doesn’t change the fact that the Westside is my home.”

“People leave home. You told me . . . you said your house is gone. Your Hellida is gone. Your Mary. Why go back there?”

“Because I don’t belong here.”