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away before you get frostbite.’
    They are walking away when Floella says, ‘She counted. Only other thing I know about her. She counted a lot.’
    ‘Yeah,’ Doyle says. ‘She still counts with us too.’
    At the Pit Stop, a group of young black men is gathered around a brand new silver Mercedes SL convertible, red leather interior. One of the men is doing all the talking,
showing off his new acquisition. Despite the cold, he wears a tight black sleeveless T, emphasizing his muscular arms and chest. Around one wrist is a gold Rolex; heavy gold chains are on the other
wrist and around his neck. His hair is braided in cornrows. His face is boyish, the only thing putting any menace on it being a small moon-shaped scar high on his cheek.
    As Doyle and Alvarez walk in off the street, the gang descends into silence and focuses its energy in a collective stony glare.
    ‘Tremaine Cavell?’ Doyle asks the apparent leader.
    The man chin-points at Doyle. ‘Who you?’
    Doyle flips open his wallet, flashes his own gold. ‘Detectives Doyle and Alvarez.’
    Cavell looks to his boys, a hint of amusement on his lips. He gets a rumble of laughter in return.
    ‘Yeah, thass me,’ he says. ‘Friends call me TC.’
    Doyle turns to Alvarez. ‘Close friends get to call him TC.’
    Alvarez smiles. ‘The indisputable leader of the gang.’
    Doyle points to a short, rotund man in blue mechanic’s overalls. ‘That Benny the Ball?’
    ‘Yeah, and you Officer Dibble,’ Cavell says. ‘Now what you want?’
    ‘Information. On one of your girls.’
    Cavell puffs out his already-substantial pectorals. ‘I got more honeys than Winnie the fuckin’ Pooh, man. You gonna have to get more, like, specific.’
    ‘I’m talking about the girls who turn tricks for you, Tremaine.’
    Cavell puts a finger to his neck chain. ‘Me? Running hookers? Nah, man, I don’t do that shit. Who gave you that?’
    ‘All right, Tremaine. This ain’t a vice bust. I just want to know about one girl. Blond, age nineteen. Goes by the name Scarlett.’
    Cavell folds his arms. ‘Never hearda her.’
    Doyle surveys the faces of the other young men in the garage. Their faces, like their souls, are hard. He wishes that, just for once, people in this city would be a little more cooperative.
    He drops his gaze to the Mercedes. ‘Nice ride.’
    There is a sudden softening in Cavell. He lowers his arms, becomes more animated.
    ‘You like that, huh? It got DVD, multi-CD, GPS. Shit, it even got a Playstation in the back . . .’
    Doyle sits down on the vehicle’s hood. He doesn’t do it lightly, but throws his whole weight on there.
    ‘Whoa!’ Cavell shouts.
    Doyle bounces heavily up and down a few times. ‘Good suspension too,’ he says. He is aware of the consternation among Cavell’s boys, but he knows that Alvarez has his back.
    Doyle points to his left foot. ‘Will you look at that? Damn shoelace coming untied again.’ He lifts his foot, plants the heel securely on the fender.
    ‘Oh, man . . .’ Cavell says, raising his arms to the sky.
    As Doyle reties his lace, he pretends to peer at something on the spotless hood. ‘I think you got some dirt on here, Tremaine. Some tar or something, man.’
    He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a bunch of keys.
    Cavell is getting worked up into a frenzy; his voice goes up an octave. ‘What the fuck?’
    Doyle leans over the hood, brings the jagged teeth of a key within millimeters of the paintwork.
    ‘Aiight!’ Cavell screams. ‘I know the bitch, yo. Thass all I’m saying. I know the bitch. Aiight?’
    Doyle slides off the car and points a finger at Cavell. ‘Gotcha, TC.’ He drops the keys back into his pocket and swaps them for the photograph. ‘This her?’
    Cavell takes a look, then a closer look. ‘Shit!’ He turns to his buddies and says, ‘Bitch be dead. Fuckin’ bitch be dead, yo,’ like it’s a line from an
updated Wizard of Oz .
    ‘You sound awful cut up about it, Tremaine.’
    ‘Shit,