She laughed, and I laughed, and I think she believed me. At a lunch counter just inside the arcade, we worked our way through a pitcher of boiling coffee as the chef turned a spit of pork over an open fire. We laughed at old jokes and made nasty comments about the people passing by and did a reasonably convincing imitation of two happy friends.

The fat dripped, hissed, and perfumed the air. The cook sliced a few generous slabs of meat, buried them under a pile of fried potatoes and blackened onions, and dropped the plates before us. We gorged. Fifteen minutes later, we slumped in our chairs.

“They do know how to eat up here,” I said.

“So why don’t we stay? Sell the house, or board it up, and come to live where people are happy.”

“I’m not going to waste what remains of my youth squatting in one of Van Alen’s hovels.”

“There’s no future below the Borderline. Here, they have food. They have the night-fires. They have men.”

“I can’t leave the house. It’s . . . not now. But what if you left without me?”

“Never.”

“I’d feel better with you out of the Westside altogether. We could get you a room on the Eastside, just for the week. Just for tonight.”

“Why? What happens tonight? You’re not going out again.”

“I may have to.”

“Why? Everything’s finished. You found the glove. You bring it to Mrs. Copeland this afternoon, take her money, and walk out the door.”

“There may be a few loose ends.”

I slid some change across the grease-pooled counter, and the cook pushed most of it back.

“Westside discount,” he said. “Residents only. Courtesy Van Alen.”

I grunted thanks, and Hellida followed me down the arcade.

“Why did you bring me here?” she said.

“To mourn a crepe pan.”

“What else?”

“I have to speak to Van Alen. The overseer should know how to find him.”

She stopped walking and lowered herself onto the nearest bench. She covered her eyes with one hand, and for the first time in her life, she looked old.

“You don’t care about my crepe pan,” she said. “You don’t care about Hellida.”

“I don’t expect you to understand, but there is a war coming.”

“Oh really, Gilda.”

“I just have to ask the man a few questions.”

“And he gives you answers, and you ask more questions. And those take you all over town, and you keep asking questions, and you keep asking, until you’re floating facedown in the sewer and . . . never mind.”

“Don’t you want to know how my father died?”

“I already know how. Look in the mirror, and you’ll know too.”

“He was a fool. I’m being careful.”

“No, flicka . . .” She laughed and shook her head. “I could threaten. I could tell you come with me now, or else. But I know how you choose.”