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because he was a few years older, but they’d been around each other a lot. She was glad he didn’t totally recognize her, didn’t remember her name.
    “You look real familiar.”
    “I don’t know you,” she said. “Let it go.”
    “End of the night, you’ll be begging for my number,” Teemo said, shrugging. He walked back to the bar slowly, showing Alessandra his ass in the tight jeans and laughing. “Begging!”
    Alessandra lifted her drink. “This guy,” she said to Stephanie. “You believe him?”
    Stephanie said, “He’s always been awful.”
    They finished their drinks and left, reluctant to order another round from Teemo. They walked around the neighborhood instead, and Stephanie told Alessandra what had become of everyone. Joanne Galbo was living in Bay Ridge, teaching Biology at Our Lady of the Narrows. Mary DiMaggio worked for a urologist in Dyker Heights. Melissa Sanchez was a cop, you believe that? And Melissa Murphy died on 9/11, worked at Cantor Fitzgerald on the 101st floor of Tower One. Adrienne Marra and Vinny Sorrento were married and had boinked six snot-nosed kids into existence. Andy Pascione worked construction, hurt his back on a site, and was hooked on pain meds—his wife and daughter had left him and moved to Florida and he just rented pornos from the last video store in the neighborhood and stayed inside with a box of tissues and the shades drawn.
    Alessandra felt exhausted.
    Back by Stephanie’s house now, they stopped outside the front gate and Alessandra could see Mrs. Dirello framed in an upstairs window, watching them.
    “I’m glad you came by to see me,” Stephanie said. “I’m happy you’re back.”
    “Your mom’s watching us,” Alessandra said.
    “She’s got nothing better to do. Forget it.”
    “It’s creepy.”
    “Sorry,” Stephanie said, and she reached out to hug Alessandra.
    Alessandra took the hug, patting Stephanie on the back. “Okay, sweetie,” she said.
    Stephanie ran inside, opening and closing the door gently, and Mrs. Dirello disappeared from the upstairs window. Alessandra walked home, wishing she had her father’s smokes, wishing she’d been born in another place.
     

 

    Three
     
    Conway was on 17B headed back toward Monticello. There was no noise coming from the trunk. Ray Boy seemed peaceful. Conway held the wheel with his hands at ten and two, going just under the speed limit. He knew the only ones who drove this way were eighty year olds and people who had something to hide. He got pulled over, maybe he could explain it to the cop: This guy’s responsible for my brother being dead. Let it slide this time .
    None of it made sense. He should’ve just brought Ray Boy into the house. But the tattoo and the crying jag had thrown him off and he’d gotten the idea that he should take Ray Boy back to Brooklyn, to Plumb Beach, and that nothing could stand in his way there, not in the place that Duncan had been killed, and that it would mean more there anyway.
    Seemed like the guy wanted to be put out of his misery. It almost made things harder. Conway had always envisioned a fight.
    But it was going to have to be an execution.
    The movie of the next couple hours played out in Conway’s mind: Ray Boy on his knees at Plumb Beach, eyes closed, the headlights of cars from the Belt flickering over them, Conway pressing the gun up to Ray Boy’s head, pulling the trigger, the fucker’s brains going splash in the dark. Roll credits.
    Guts up , Conway thought. It’s all been leading to this. Probably this is the way it’s supposed to happen.
    He passed an abandoned Hasidic children’s camp and then a strip club called Searchlights that was just a rundown house with a trailer attached to it. He considered, honestly, stopping to get a lap dance. Why not? Ray Boy resting in the trunk, not going anywhere, Conway just letting off a little steam. He thought better of it, though. He was also scared shitless of what he’d find in a trailer trash