“And I never will neither.”

“You see them around, Hugo and Teddy?”

“Hugo left the city a long time ago, I haven’t seen him in the flesh since. And Teddy, that sweet-talking son of a bitch disappeared right after the robbery.”

“Disappeared?”

Joey let out a soft whistle, like the wind flying across a plain.

“You should turn yourself in, Joey, answer their questions.”

“No, sir. I’ll end up just like Ralph, I do that.”

“When I give them the note you found with Ralph’s body, I’m going to tell them how you showed up, took the money, made the 911 call. They’ll still be looking for you, but you won’t be a suspect.”

“Do what you gotta do.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Drive around, pick up fares, support myself like I always done, and sleep in the cab until it blows over.”

“Get rid of the gun.”

“Right,” he said as he took another swig.

“And that’s not helping either. Listen, how can I get in touch with you?”

“Call your father.”

“My father?”

“I’ll check in with him now and again. We could always trust your father.”

“Be careful.”

“You, too, Victor.”

“Joey, one thing more. What was Teddy’s dream? Did he ever say?”

“He was heading for the other side of the world, he was. Said there was a girl he was going to chase. And about that note. Tell the cops they won’t find nothing of interest on it.”

“Why is that?”

“Because ghosts don’t leave no prints.”

Ghosts. I was surrounded by ghosts, or at least those plagued by them, because when the haunted man in the cab drove away, I turned to face the haunted woman waiting for me in front of my office. She was wearing the classic Philly combo: red high heels, blue jeans, tight black shirt. My first thought was how damn pretty she was, so pretty it was hard to tear my gaze away. My second thought was how the hell I was going to get rid of her.

“You promised,” I said.

“I promised I wouldn’t call,” said Monica Adair.

“This is worse. Monica, it wasn’t a date. Really. It wasn’t.”

“Okay, I buy that now. It wasn’t a date.”

“I didn’t mean to lead you on.”

“I know.”

“Good, I’m glad that’s clear. Then what are you doing here?”

“Can we talk, like, privately?”

I looked around. Pedestrians were sparse. “This isn’t private enough?”

“Not really. I have a legal question.”

“Monica, this is crazy. Stop it now. I feel like I’m being stalked.”

“Maybe I’m a little confused. You are a lawyer, right?”

“Yes, I’m a lawyer.”

“Then why won’t you talk to me about an important legal matter?”

I closed my eyes. “What kind of matter?”

“Do you always talk about important legal matters on the street?”

“With people who aren’t clients, sure.”

“How do I become a client?”

“Pay a retainer.”

“How much?”

“Depends on the case.”

She opened her bag and reached in, and as she searched, she said, “Do you take small bills?”

“What kind of legal matter is this, Monica?”

“Can we discuss this upstairs, in your office? Please?”

Beaten, finally, and wanting to get the spectacle off the street, I led her through the dirty glass door, up the wide stairs, past the accountants’ office and the graphic-design office, and into our suite.

Ellie smiled warmly at Monica. “I see you found him, Miss Adair.”

“Yes, Ellie, thank you,” said Monica.

“Good luck.”

I gave my secretary a wary look as I led Monica into my office. When I had her seated, I stepped back out.

“Ellie, do me a favor and call Detective McDeiss. I need to hand over some evidence to him as soon as possible.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Carl.”

“And ask him if he could set up a meeting with Mr. Slocum and that fed, Jenna Hathaway, for this afternoon, okay?” I paused, thought about something. “Ellie, why did you wish our Miss Adair good luck?”

“She said she’s looking for her sister. I hope she finds her.”

“Right,” I said.

“Are you going to help her, Mr. Carl?”

“I think she’s a little beyond my help, Ellie. Thank you, and let me know right away when you hear back from McDeiss.”

When I returned to the office, Monica was standing behind my desk, leaning back, arms crossed, examining the framed photograph of Ulysses S. Grant hanging crookedly on the wall. “He looks like my Uncle Rupert,” she said.

“He looks like everybody’s Uncle Rupert,” I said. “Can we get started? I have a busy day and it’s already taken a turn for the worse.”

She winced at that, slightly, nothing big, but a wince just the same. I watched her as she moved away from the photograph and sat in the client chair in front of my desk. She was twisting her lips, as if she were trying to figure out why I was being such a jerk. Good luck to her. I wasn’t quite sure why myself, though there was no doubt that I was.

“All right, Ms. Adair,” I said.

“Oh, we’re all formal now, are we?” she said with a slight smile.

“Yes, that is what we are,” I said. “So what can I do for you?”

“I want to hire you.”

“To do what?”

“To find my sister.”

I sighed for effect. “This sister who disappeared before you were born.”

“That’s right. I want you to find Chantal.”

“I’m not a private detective, Ms. Adair. I can refer you to one if you’d like.”

“I want you.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t. It’s not what I do.”

“What do you do, Victor?”

“I primarily defend people accused of crimes.”

“And that’s more important than finding a missing girl?”

“No, and it’s not more important than being a teacher or a doctor, or even dancing with my clothes off, but it is what I do.”

“Why are you so mean to me?”

“I’m not trying to be mean. I’m just trying to be honest.”

“But you’re being mean.”

“What do you want from me, Monica?”

“I want to see it.”

“See what?”

“The tattoo.”

“Gad, no. Forget it. There is no way.”

“Please.”

“Absolutely not. I’m starting to get very uncomfortable here. I’m sorry I can’t help you with your sister, but right now this meeting is over.”

“Every place I go, I check the phone book,” she said. “Every day I look her up on the Internet. Just to see if there’s anything going on with a Chantal Adair. I know it’s silly, she won’t have the same name if she was taken, but I do it. There are a couple Chantal Adairs out there. I keep track of them all. They’re not the right ages, but still I feel close to them, as close as family.”

“Monica, you’re starting to weird me out.”

“Is that so weird?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe it is. You know those guys who sit all alone in some laboratory, listening in on the static, waiting for a message from outer space?” she said. “That’s me, that’s my life. I’m all alone with my dog and my gun, waiting for a message from my sister. And there’s been nothing. Nothing.” Pause. “Until last week.”

I leaned forward, my interest suddenly piqued. “Really? What happened last week?”

“You,” she said.

It was only then that it dawned on me, with heartbreaking clarity, that I was dealing with a higher level of insanity than I had heretofore previously thought. And I sensed its root cause, too.

We all suffer, from time to time, the spiritual unease that flickers like a faint flame before being doused by a nice chardonnay or a ball game on the tube. What is our purpose? What is our destiny? Is there more to life than this bland string of continuous sensation? We try to stifle our questions with money or love, with sex or politics or God, we try to plaster over the hole as best we can until the very end, when the light dims and the plaster shatters and we’re left alone to wrestle with our doubts through to our final, painful breath. But hey, that’s half the fun of being human.