“Even when we did get Papa to ourselves, we never got to be alone with him,” he said. “Except for one afternoon, when he took me to see the carriage parade in Central Park. Afterward, we walked the length of it. I was watching the sun set over the lake, when he told me to turn around and look east instead. He died soon after. My whole life, that blue has stayed in my heart.”

Over the next months, whenever I had the pep to get out of bed, I stalked Manhattan up and down, sifting through shops for printers, authors, artists, stamp collectors, pen collectors, calligraphers, weavers, forgers, pornographers, and anyone else with an eye for beautiful things. To the Lower West I brought bits of paper stained with every blue I found, and to all of them Enoch apologized and shook his head.

At last I found an old woman in an underground shop on the Upper West, who promised she could make ink to match any shade in creation, so long as I could provide her with a sample. But of course that was impossible. In all of New York, there was no paint shard, no fabric scrap, no broken pot or torn dust jacket or dead bug that quite matched the flames burning inside Enoch Byrd’s head. I didn’t mind. The longer he was unsatisfied, the more I would eventually bill him, and the longer I put off finding something else to do with my days.

That night at the saloon, I smoothed Bex’s array of blues out on the table and watched him run his finger down the rows of color, wondering how long it would take him to shake his head.

“Your instincts are good,” he said. “Blue 72 is close to what I’m after.”

“But close is . . .”

“Still a bit wrong. I’m sorry, truly.”

“All part of the job.”

With a final cackle, Judy cast the last of the broken glass over the lip of the building. She tucked her broom under her shoulder and sidled up to her brother, eyeing his purse.

“Any sales?” she said.

“Three dollars’ worth,” he answered.

“Berk says we owe two twenty-five for the glassware.”

“You might avoid the ashtrays, sister. They are expensive.”

“You know better than anyone that Christ demands a clean sweep.”

Enoch sighed, counted the money, and dropped it in the bucket on the bar. Berk nodded, and Judy saluted with her broom.

“Have you nearly finished that drink, Miss Carr?” asked Enoch.

“Yes,” I said, “but I haven’t even started on the next one.”

“I wonder if you would consider postponing it. You’ve done such marvelous work looking for my blue ink and I wondered if, well . . . my mother wants a word.”