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hugging it like that.”
    She unfolded her arms slowly and dropped them to her side. She began to smile, tried to stop it, and felt a twitch at the edge of her lip.
    “It’s not a uniform,” she said, her voice softening, losing its edge. “It’s just an old cotton shirt.”
    They studied each other for a while, not speaking, as the recorded mariachi music danced through the dining room and bar.
    “What I was trying to tell you,” she said, “before you interrupted me … is that I don’t even know your name.”
    “It’s Terry Quinn,” he said.
    “Tuh—ree Quinn,” she said, trying it out.
    “Irish Catholic,” he said, “if you’re keeping score.”
    And Juana said, “It sings.”

Chapter
4
    W here’s your car?” asked juana.
    “You better drive tonight,” said Quinn.
    “I’m in the lot. We should cut through here.”
    They went through the break in the buildings between Rosita’s and the pawnshop. They neared Fred Folsom’s sculpted bronze bust of Norman Lane, “the Mayor of Silver Spring,” mounted in the center of the breezeway Quinn patted the top of Lane’s capped head without thought as they walked by.
    “You always do that?” said Juana.
    “Yeah,” said Quinn, “for luck. Some of the guys in the garages back here, they sort of adopted him, looked out for him when he was still alive. See?” He pointed to a sign mounted over a bay door in the alley, a caricature drawing of Lane with the saying “Don’t Worry About It” written on a button pinned to his chest, as they entered an alley. “They call this Mayor’s Lane now.”
    “You knew him?”
    “I knew who he was. I bought him a drink once over at Captain White’s. Another place that isn’t around anymore. He was just a drunk. But I guess what they’re trying to say with all this back here, with everything he was, he was still a man.”
    “God, it’s cold.” Juana held the lapels of her coat together and close to her chest and looked over at Quinn. “I’ve seen you before, you know? And not at the bookstore, either. Before that, but I know we never met.”
    “I was in the news last year. On the television and in the papers, too.”
    “Maybe that’s it.”
    “It probably is.”
    “There’s my car.”
    “That old Beetle?”
    “What, it’s not good enough for you?”
    “No, I like it.”
    “What do you drive?”
    “I’m between cars right now.”
    “Is that like being between jobs?”
    “Just like it.”
    “You asked me out and you don’t have a car?”
    “So it’s your nickel for the gas.” Quinn zipped his jacket. “I’ll get the oysters and the beers.”
    THEY were at the bar of Crisfield’s, the old Crisfield’s on the dip at Georgia, not the designer Crisfield’s on Colesville, and they were eating oysters and sides of coleslaw and washing it all down with Heineken beer. Quinn had juiced the cocktail sauce with horseradish and he noticed that Juana had added Tabasco to the mix.
    “Mmm,” said Juana, swallowing a mouthful, reaching into the cracker bowl for a chaser.
    “A dozen raw and a plate of slaw,” said Quinn. “Nothin’ better. These are good, right?”
    “They’re good.”
    All the stools at the U—shaped bar were occupied, and the dining room to the right was filled. The atmosphere was no atmosphere: white tile walls with photographs of local celebrities framed and mounted above the tiles, wood tables topped with paper place mats, grocery storeought salad dressing displayed on a bracketed shelf… and still the place was packed nearly every night, despite the fact that management was giving nothing away. Crisfield’s was a D.C. landmark, where generations of Washingtonians had met and shared food and conversation for years.
    “Make any money tonight?” said Quinn.
    “By the time I tipped out the bartender … not real money, no. I walked with forty—five.”
    “You keep having forty—five—dollar nights, you’re not going to be able to make it through