The sun was low in the sky when I left Tanya Watson’s place. There was a chill and the acrid smell of burning firewood in the air. I started up the Mustang and sat shivering while the car warmed up. I should have brought a coat. Autumn, with its warm days and cool nights, always threw me off.
What now? It was too late to knock on more doors. Too late to visit people, too late to be in this neighborhood. s**t, my childhood neighborhood was worse than this. I looked around. In the gloom, the houses looked depressingly old. The big old trees seemed to harbor shadow and menace. I thought about Bed-Stuy again and wondered how I’d survived my nine years there.
I got to the office at six. Sheila, the receptionist for Kressler and Associates, the accounting firm where I sublet space, was packing
