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Billy put his hand on the envelope, but Kowalski didn’t let go. “Two things. You don’t screw her, and you don’t come home without her.” Billy blushed. Kowalski released the envelope. Billy sat in a Greenwich Village café with yellow walls and red accents. Bullfight and matador posters were everywhere, and wood-bladed ceiling fans stirred the air. He smelled saffron rice. Billy nursed a double espresso and watched Molly wait wormwood tables. Kowalski had called with Molly’s general location, and Billy spotted her in the second place he looked. Molly had a pixie face and clipped her blonde hair up in a ponytail. She wore a tee shirt tucked into fitted jeans with, “Like them apples?” written across the front. Billy hoped to find her scared and alone, ready to return. But, if she lived on the streets, she cleaned up great in the ladies room. The longer Billy observed Molly, the more likely he felt her response would be, “Get lost.” Billy stepped outside to call Kowalski. The restaurant was on a tree-lined street of reddish brown brick-faced homes with stone stoops and black iron gates. Cars and delivery trucks belched fumes. Billy ducked into an alcove for quiet. Kowalski answered the first ring. “Molly waits tables at the Andalusia café, and she looks fine, great in fact.” “Have you spoken with her?” “No. I’m not sure how to approach her.” “Figure it out. That’s why I’m paying you. Get her on the plane.” Kowalski hung up. 94!