“Excuse me, miss,” she said.

The young girl paused. Her eyes were very large and blue, but already the older woman could see the light dying inside. “I can’t give you money,” she said.

“I don’t want money. I have a picture. I’d like you to take a look at it, maybe tell me if you know the girl.”

She reached into her bag and removed the photograph of her daughter. After some hesitation, the girl took it. She looked at it for a time, then handed it back.

“She’s gone,” she said.

The older woman stepped slowly forward. She didn’t want to alarm the girl. “You know her?”

“Not really. I saw her around some, but she went away a day or two after I started. I heard her street name was LaShan, but I don’t think that was her real name.”

“No, her name is Alice.”

“Are you her mother?”

“Yes.”

“She seemed nice.”

“She is.”

“She had a friend. Her name was Sereta.”

“Do you know where I can find her friend?”

The girl shook her head.

“She left too. I wish I could tell you more, but I can’t. I got to go.”

Before the woman could stop her, she had stepped out into the stream and was taken up by the flow. She followed her, watching her go. She saw the girl cross the street and hand some money over to the young black man who had hit her, then take up position once again with the other women lining the street.

Where were the police? she wondered. How could they let this continue on their doorsteps, this exploitation, this suffering? How could they allow a little girl like that to be used, to be killed slowly from the inside out? And if they could permit this to happen, how much could they care about a lost black girl who had fallen into this river of human misery and was dragged down by its currents?

She was a fool to believe that she could come to this strange city and find her daughter alone. She had called the police first, of course, before she had even decided to come north, and had given them what details she could over the phone. They had advised her to file a report in person once she came to the city, and she had done so the previous day. She had watched the policeman’s expression alter slightly as she spoke to him of her child’s circumstances. To him, her daughter was another addict drifting through a dangerous life. Perhaps he meant what he said when he told her he would do his best for her, but she knew that the disappearance of her little girl was not as important as a missing white girl, maybe one with money or influence, or simply one without puncture holes in the flesh between her fingers and toes. She had considered returning to the police that morning and describing the man who had struck her and the young prostitute with whom she had spoken, but she believed that it would make little difference if she did. The time for the police was gone now. She needed someone for whom her daughter would be a priority, not merely another name on an ever-growing list of the disappeared.

Although it was Sunday, the main door to the auto shop was half-raised, and music was playing inside. The woman crouched down and edged her way into the dimly lit interior. A thin man in coveralls was bent over the interior of a big foreign car. His name was Arno. Beside him, Tony Bennett’s voice came from the cheap speakers of a small, battered radio.

“Hello?” said the woman.

Arno turned his head, although his hands remained hidden in the workings of the engine.

“I’m sorry, lady, we’re closed,” he said.

He knew he should have pulled the shutter down fully, but he liked to let a little air in, and anyway he didn’t expect to be here for too long. The Audi was due to be picked up first thing Monday morning, and another hour or two would see it done.

“I’m looking for someone,” she said.

“The boss ain’t around.”

As the woman approached, he saw the swelling on her face. He wiped his hands on a rag and abandoned the car for the time being.

“Hey, you okay? What happened to your face?”

The woman was close to him now. She was hiding her distress and her fear, but the mechanic could see it in her eyes, like a scared child peering out of twin windows.

“I’m looking for someone,” she repeated. “He gave me this.”

She removed her wallet from her bag and carefully extracted a card from its folds. The card was slightly yellowed at the edges, but apart from this natural ageing it was in pristine condition. The mechanic reckoned that it had been kept safe for a long time, just in case it was ever needed.

Arno took the card. There was no name upon it, only an illustration. It depicted a serpent being trampled beneath the feet of an armored angel. The angel had a lance in his right hand, and its point had pierced the reptile. Dark blood flowed from the wound. On the back of the card was the number of a discreet answering service. Beside it was a single letter L, written in black ink, along with the handwritten address of the auto shop in which they now stood.

Few people had such cards in their possession, and the mechanic had never seen a card with the address of the shop added by hand. The letter L was the clincher. In effect, this was an “access all areas” pass, a request-no, an order-to extend any and all help to the person who possessed it.

“Did you call the number?” he asked.

“I don’t want to talk to him through no service. I want to see him.”

“He’s not here. He’s out of town.”

“Where?”

The mechanic hesitated before answering.

“Maine.”

“I’d be grateful to you if you’d give me the address of where he’s at.”

Arno walked to the cluttered office that stood to the left of the main work area. He flicked through the address book until he came to the entry he needed, then took a piece of paper and transferred the relevant details to it. He folded the paper and gave it to the woman.

“You want me to call him for you, let him know you’re on your way?”

“Thank you, but no.”

“You got a car?”

She shook her head.

“I took the subway out here.”

“You know how you’re going to get up to Maine?”

“Not yet. Bus, I guess.”

Arno put on his jacket and removed a set of keys from his pocket.

“I’ll give you a ride to Port Authority, see you safely onto the bus.”

For the first time, the woman smiled.

“Thank you, I’d appreciate that.”

Arno looked at her. Gently, he touched her face, examining the bruise.

“I got something for that, if it’s hurting you.”

“I’ll be fine,” she said.

He nodded.

The man who did this to you is in a lot of trouble. The man who did this to you won’t live out the week.

“Let’s go, then. We got time, I’ll buy you a cup of coffee and a muffin for the trip.”

Dead man. He’s a dead man.

We were gathered around the font in a small group, the other guests standing in the pews a little distance away. The priest had made his introductions, and now we were approaching the meat of the ceremony.

“Do you reject Satan, and all his empty promises?” asked the priest.

He waited. There was no reply. Rachel coughed discreetly. Angel appeared to have found something interesting to look at down on the floor. Louis remained impassive. He had removed his shades and was focused on a point just above my left shoulder.

“You’re speaking for Sam,” I whispered to Angel. “He doesn’t mean you.”

Realization dawned like morning light on an arid desert.

“Oh, okay then,” said Angel enthusiastically. “Sure. Absolutely. Rejected.”

“Amen,” said Louis.

The priest looked confused.

“That would be a yes,” I told him.

“Right,” he said, as if to reassure himself. “Good.”

Rachel shot daggers at Angel.

“What?” he asked. He raised his hands in a “What did I do?” gesture. Some wax from the candle dripped onto the sleeve of his jacket. A faintly acrid smell arose.