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would have been them.
    Gruesome stories, but the repetition says something about life. Maybe it’s that irony thing, one of life’s circles.
    Sammy is pretty old now, his black hair with a lot of gray in it, thinning some in back, but still thick as a rug everywhere else. I don’t know what kind of Arab he is. I’d seen him and knew who he was, but he didn’t know me from a lamppost.
    Car services are humble establishments that are all pretty much the same. A small paneled waiting area the size of a large rug sits in front of a counter. In front of the counter are some beat-up chairs and beat-up magazines. Behind the counter is a large map of New York City, a list of rates to the airports, a CB-type radio to talk to the cars, and in this case a wary Arab.
    “You Sammy?” Of course I knew it was Sammy, but it was a way to break the ice.
    He looked at me like I might burst into flame, and didn’t answer me, waiting for what might come next.
    “My name is Tommy Davin. I’m a neighborhood guy. I was at Donut House yesterday when that thing happened. I was standing right in front of one of your cars when it happened.”
    Still Sammy said nothing. He didn’t even blink. These were eyes, I think, that had seen it all, and were sure they would see more. Sadly.
    I almost expected him to shout,
“Why do you people keep coming
here
!”
    “Horrible thing, what happened. I was a friend of the victim. I’ll tell you why I’m here. I want to give you fifty bucks to tell me who hired one of your cars on Sunday morning, the day before this happened. One of your drivers out front of Donut House was hired by a woman.”
    Sammy looked down his big brown Arab nose at the Grant I had set on the counter. Then at his big logbook next to it. Finally, he says, “The TLC forbids me to release such information.” TLC is the Taxi and Limousine Commission, which polices car services and taxicab companies.
    “I know, Sammy. I’m asking for you to make an exception. I’m asking for you to go through your logbook, flip to day before yesterday, and see who hired the car on Sunday. It will take maybe thirty seconds. Fifty dollars for thirty seconds is, let’s see…”
    “Six thousand dollars an hour,” Sammy says, like in a whisper. “Why do you want to know this thing?”
    “The fifty bucks is also so I don’t have to answer that question. Look, I’m not asking for the name of your driver or anything like that, and I’m not going to hurt anybody. I want to find out where the woman went in the car, the destination. What harm could come of that?”
    “The TLC and police would not like it. I should call the police.” The smallest of smiles pushed at the corners of his mouth, like knowing what he should do gave him the upper hand.
    “You could do that. But will the police pay you six thousand dollars an hour for the trouble?”
    There was nobody else in the place, no drivers, no customers.
    So Sammy looks at the logbook, looks at me, and says, “I cannot help you, and am going to the bathroom. Please be gone when I return or I will call the police.”
    Grant went with him. As soon as I heard the bathroom door latch I spun the logbook around and flipped it open.
    I was gone before he returned.
    For fifty bucks I’d bought a drop-off address and the last name French. The car wasn’t hired by a company, wasn’t on an account. Cash.
    The address was the Williamsburg Savings Bank Building, an Art Deco skyscraper that is to Brooklyn what Big Ben is to London. There’s a glowing clock at the top with red hands. The building gets thinner as it goes up, in steps, until just above the clock there’s this tiny dome. The dome looks kind of stupid, like a tiny yarmulke on a giant. Brooklyn has a downtown area with some big buildings, but Billy Bank is still the tallest building around, and the clock could be seen from miles in all directions, even from my neighborhood.
    Ms. French may or may not really have offices at Billy Bank, and she