“The goddamned car broke down,” she announced, plopping herself onto the sofa. “And we can’t get another one before noon. I swear to Christ this miserable city’s falling apart. We’ll have to put the trip off. Phone those idiots at Bird Creek, or whatever the hell it’s called, and cancel the interview.” She was wearing a black suit over a white silk blouse. A vivid tribal scarf draped her right shoulder, dropping across her chest and back, while a soft, wide-brimmed hat, banded in the same tribal pattern, sat squarely on her head. The effect was stunning. “It’s Owl Creek, Captain, and there’s no reason we can’t take my car. It’s parked in a garage about a block from here.” “You have a car, Means?” “It’s not a crime. Even in New York.” You’d never know it, though. Not with the price of gas, the eighteen percent parking tax, the tow program, the registration surcharge, and the three-dollar toll on the tunnels and bridges. “What kind of car?” “It’s a Buick.”
