Auntie Lil demanded. "You mean the one on Forty-Eighth Street?"
The boy nodded, his mouth crammed with chocolate syrup and ice cream. "The big one," he muttered through his dessert.
"St. Barnabas? With the soup kitchen? Where Bob Fleming sometimes takes people to eat?"
Little Pete nodded again. "But not Timmy. He won't go inside. Like I say, he just watches through the door sometimes."
Now it was Auntie Lil's turn to drum the glass tabletop with her fingers. "Who would want to kill Emily?" she asked sharply.
Little Pete looked up in mid-bite, startled. "Don't know," he protested. "She was a nice lady. She was gonna give me a present."
Auntie Lil sighed and her mind wandered over what she had learned. Emily had cared about this young boy, Timmy, enough to let him call her "Grandma." And he had hung around St. Barnabas. But, according to Little Pete, never went in.
"How old are you?" she asked Little Pete.
"Now I'm twelve," he answered proudly.
"How old is Timmy?" she continued.
"Timmy's older. He turned fourteen last July. He was born on the fourth of July," he added helpfully.
Auntie Lil sighed. She would have to talk to Timmy herself. "Can you get him to talk to me?" she asked again, letting warmth creep into her voice for the very first time. In fact, she was trying her best to plead—which was distinctly against her nature.
Little Pete shrugged and shook his head. "I can try, but I don't think he'll do it." The boy shrugged again. "Says he's cursed."
"Cursed?"
Little Pete scooped up the rest of his sundae and carefully finished every drop. "Says everyone that tries to be good to him ends up dead." Little Pete looked her right in the eye. "I wouldn't want to help him if I was you."
"What about you?" Auntie Lil pointed out. "You're his friend and you're not dead."
"Me? I'm too little for no one to bother about. Besides, I'm too smart." The little boy finished licking his spoon and let it fall into the dish with a clatter. He winced and looked sideways at Billy, then slowly rose before freezing in indecision.
"It's okay. He knows I'm paying," Auntie Lil assured the boy. "You can go now if you want."
"Man don't like me," Little Pete confided.
"I guess not. You steal his things." Auntie Lil spoke calmly and without judgment. Little Pete shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot and ducked his head. Either he was ashamed or he was trying to say something that was difficult for him to say.
"About the dinner," he finally said in a voice so soft that, even leaning forward, Auntie Lil caught only part of it. "Thanks. But I got to go."
He dashed out the door, blending into the new evening's shadows and reappearing clearly in the illuminated harshness of the occasional streetlight that lit Eighth Avenue at night. Auntie Lil stood in the window, following his small figure through the clusters of theater patrons hurrying toward their shows. The boy walked quickly, head down, minding his own business—the very first rule of life on the street. Halfway down the block, something caught his attention. Perhaps he heard a shouted greeting, or a warning whistle. His head jerked up and he looked furtively around, then turned and raised an arm in greeting. Another small figure hurried across the avenue to Little Pete. They met beneath a streetlight and Auntie Lil saw the glow of a head of nearly white hair. Timmy. Had he been standing on the far corner, waiting for Little Pete? Waiting for a report back on her? The two boys gave each other a high-five hand slap, then turned down Forty-Sixth Street and quickly disappeared from view. Just as Auntie Lil was about to return to the table and settle the bill, she saw a by now familiar figure hurrying down the block, right behind the two boys. Or was it simply a coincidence that all were heading down Forty-Sixth Street? Whatever the reason, Leteisha Swann, woman of the night, disappeared into the very same darkness that had swallowed Timmy and Little Pete only a few seconds before.
"Find out anything?" Billy asked from behind. She jumped in alarm and he steadied her with a very strong arm. "Sorry. Didn't mean to spook you."
Flustered, she fussed over to her table and hauled her pocketbook onto a chair. "How much do I owe you?" she asked.
"Nothing at all." He began to clear the dishes from the table and ignored her protests. "Listen, lady, whatever it is you're really