In the kitchen he examined the gas oven and stove. It was a top-of-the-line model but Sonny knew about appliances only from his profession. He used his own stove just to heat water for herbal tea. He ate only vegetables and never cooked them; he found the whole idea of heating food abhorrent. He dropped to the immaculate tile floor and pulled open the stove. He had the bimetal gas cutoff valve disabled in five seconds and the gooseneck hose off in ten. The sour scent of the natural gas odorant (the gas itself has no scent) poured into the room. Sweet and bitter and curiously appealing – like tonic water.

He walked to the front door of the loft and flicked the light switch on then off to see which bulb went on – an overhead one not far away. Sonny climbed onto a chair, reaching up, stretching, cracking the bulb with his wrench and sending the sleet of glass down on his hair and shoulders. The ceilings were high and it was quite a stretch. As he’d struggled to reach the bulb he was sure that tall Agent Scullery was laughing at him.

But laughter’s in the eye of the beholder, Sonny thought, glaring at her as he returned to his bag, took out the jar of juice and poured it over her blouse and skirt. She writhed away from him.

He asked, “Who’s laughing now? Hmm?”

Sonny walked throughout the loft, shutting off the lights, and closing all the drapes. He walked to the front door and stepped into the corridor, leaving the door slightly ajar. In the lobby he jotted down the names of six of the residents in the building.

A half hour later he was standing in a phone kiosk a block away, half-eaten mango in one hand, the phone crooked under his chin, punching in phone numbers.

On his fifth try someone answered. “Hello?”

“Say, is this the Roberts residence?”

“It’s Sally Roberts, yes.”

“Oh, hi, you don’t know me. I’m Alice Gibson’s brother? In your building.”

“Alice, sure. Four-D.”

“That’s right. She’d mentioned you live there and I just got your number from directory assistance. You know, I’m a little concerned about her.”

“Really?” The woman’s voice was concerned too.

“We were talking on the phone a little while ago and she said she was feeling real sick. Food poisoning, she was thinking. She hung up and I tried to call back and there was no answer. I hate to ask but do you think you could go check on her? I’m worried that she passed out.”

“Of course. You want to give me your number?”

“I’ll just hold on if you don’t mind,” said Sonny the polite sibling. “You’re too kind.”

He leaned his head against the aluminum of the kiosk. It left sweat stains. Why all this sweat? He thought again. But it’s hot out. Everybody’s sweating. Not everybody’s hands are shaking though. He pushed that thought away. Think about something else. How ’bout dinner? Okay. What would he have for dinner tonight? he wondered. A ripe tomato. A good Jersey one. They were hard to find. Salt and a little -

This was weird. The sound of the massive explosion reached him through the phone before he heard it live. Then the line went dead as the kiosk shook hard under the wave of the blast. Typical of natural gas explosions there was a blue-white flare and very little smoke as the windows imploded from the inrush of oxygen then immediately exploded outward from the force of the combustion.

Fire draws more than it expands.

Sonny watched for a moment as the flames spread to the top floor of the late Agent Scullery’s apartment. The tarred roof ignited and the smoke turned from white to gray to black.

He wiped his hands on a napkin. Then he opened the map and carefully drew check through the circle that had marked the loft. He pitched the mango out and started back to his apartment, walking quickly, in the opposite direction from all the spectators, noting their excitement and wishing they knew they had him to thank.

“How you feeling, Mother?”

“How she feeling?” a voice called across the cold cement floor. “How she doing?”

Ettie Washington lay on the cot, legs tucked up under her. She opened her eyes. Her first thought: the memory that her clothes had been a problem. Always concerned that she looked nice, always ironing her dresses and blouses and skirts. But here, in the Women’s Detention Center in downtown Manhattan, where they let you wear street clothes – minus belts and laces, of course – Ettie Washington had had no clothes.

When they’d brought her from the hospital all she had on was her pale blue robe with dots on it, open up the back. No buttons, just ties. She was dreadfully embarrassed. Finally one of the guards had found her a simple dress, a prison shift. Blue. Washed a million times. She hated it.

“Hey, Mother, you hear me? You feeling okay?”

A large black form hovered over her. A hand stroked her forehead. “She feel hot. Mebbe got a fever.”

“God gonna watch over that woman,” came another voice from the far side of the detention center.

“She be okay. You be okay, Mother.” The large woman, in her forties, shrank down on her knees next to Ettie, who squinted until she could see the woman clearly.

“How’s yo arm?”

“It hurts,” Ettie responded. “I broke it.”

“That quite a cast.” The brown eyes took in John Pellam’s signature.

“What’s your name?” Ettie asked her, struggling to sit up.

“No, no, Mother, you stay lying down. I’m Hatake Imaham, Mother.”

“I’m Ettie Washington.”

“We know.”

Ettie tried again to sit. She felt helpless, weaker than she already was, on her back.

“No, no, no, Mother, you stay there. Don’t get up. They brung you in like a sacka flour. Them white fuckers. Dropped you down.”

There were two dozen cots, bolted to the floor. The mattresses were an inch thick and hard as dirt. She might as well have been lying on the floor.

Ettie had a vague memory of the cops moving her here from the hospital room. She’d been exhausted and doped up. They used a paddy wagon. There was nothing to hold onto and it seemed to her that the driver had taken turns fast – on purpose. Twice she’d fallen off the slick plastic bench and often she banged her broken arm so badly it brought tears to her eyes.

“I’m tired,” she said to Hatake and looked past the huge woman to the other occupants of the cell. The detention center was a single large room, barred and painted beige. Like many Hell’s Kitchen residents Ettie Washington knew something about holding cells. She knew that most of these women would be in here for pissy crimes, who-cares crimes. Shoplifting, prostitution, assault, fraud. (Shoplifting was okay because it helped you feed your family. If you were a prostitute – Ettie hated the term “ ho ” – it was because you couldn’t get a job doing decent work for decent pay; besides at least you were working and not on the dole. Assault – well, whaling on your husband’s girlfriend? What’s wrong with that? Ettie’d done it herself once or twice. And as for ripping off the welfare system – oh, please. Trees ripe for the picking…)

Ettie had a taste for some wine. Wanted some badly. She’d snuck a hundred dollars into her cast but it didn’t look like anybody here was connected enough to get her a bottle. Why, these’re just girls, here, most of ’em babies.

Hatake Imaham stroked Ettie’s head once more.

“You lie right there, Mother. You be still and don’t you worry ’bout nothing. I’ma look out for you. I’ma get you what you need.”

Hatake was a huge woman with cornrows and dangling, beaded African hair – exactly the way Elizabeth had worn it the day she left New York City. Ettie noticed that the holes in Hatake’s ear lobes were huge and she wondered about the size of the earrings that had stretched the skin so much. She wondered if Elizabeth wore jewelry like that. Probably. The girl had an ostentatious side to her.