God, how I wanted to say yes, to take him by the hand and lead him back to the town house to shut out the city for a night and a day and a few nights more. It would be easy, with his help, to forget the glove, the case, the two dead criminals—but we both knew from experience that no amount of tenderness could wash away the memory of Virgil Carr. So I turned his lifeline down.

“Too much work,” I said. “Could you spare a torch?”

“You scared of the dark, bitch?” said one of the Cats, a fat little thing whose face was in danger of being swallowed by acne. Before Cherub could smack him to the ground, I lunged forward and clapped my hands in front of the young wit’s face. He leapt back, startled, and the other boys laughed some more. The warriors of the Westside fear nothing—except, perhaps, a grown woman.

“I can spare more than a torch,” said Cherub. “Roach—escort the woman wherever she likes.”

“But Captain,” said Roach, his squeaking voice hardly more than a whisper, “we’re on the Borderline tonight.”

“We can spare you for an hour. The lady needs your assistance.”

“Do you, miss?” he said, with a look so plaintive that I couldn’t refuse him.

“I’ll be fine with the light,” I said. “Let Roach help you guard the line.”

Cherub shrugged and handed me his torch. He snapped his fingers, and the gang got back into ragged formation.

“Before you go,” I said, “there was a question I wanted to ask you. As a man blessed with a fine, clear tenor, do you happen to know any song that goes like this?”

I whistled Brass Aiken’s dreadful melody. It sickened Cherub.

“I never heard that before, and I hope I never do again.”

“Damn. Well perhaps you can help lay to rest another tiny mystery.”

From my bag I took a soggy, squashed roast beef sandwich, bought at Aylesmere’s that morning on Mrs. Copeland’s dime. Before I could even ask if that was the one he’d been looking for, he shook his head, nearly as upset by the ruined food as he had been by the awful song. I was about to toss it to the sidewalk when I saw Roach begging for it with his eyes and handed it to him. He took it with both hands, dropping the gang’s standard to the cobblestones.

“Goddamn these boys,” said Cherub. “Roach, you oaf, be careful. You’ll get mustard on the cat.”

He grabbed Roach by the wrist and marched him north, like a schoolteacher dragging a hurt boy off the playground.

“Thanks for the light,” I called after him. “And Cherub?”

“What, Miss Carr?”

“Stay out of the shadows.”