I open my eyes. Still in the GTHA, on the bus, for a few minutes now. I watch passing faces, their masked mouths and nostrils concealed behind filters. An ancient American car comes creeping around the corner, carbon spewing from beneath a dangling bumper. Dusty rinds of cola-colored rust erupting from the body.  

Trembling, I watch the thing pass.

"That car... " Who sits inside, behind the black windshield? I feel the fear begin to accrete, seamlessly, senselessly, with absolute conviction. 

I find myself leaning forward. 
"El coche," says the bus driver, who wears no mask. Turning, he seems to notice a bike courier for the first time. She flips the driver the bird, and races ahead.
I breath a sigh of relief.

The client couldn't make it any other time except noon today.  Velda tells me, this one’s representing some pretty big interests.

We're at Mohawk and West 5th. I see a crowd collecting at the southeast corner. Another stupid murder. Spitz lives with her parents at West 5th and Upper James. Let’s see, where am I?

Thousands of cop cars race past. Three apartment houses, a delicatessen bar with birds’ nests and beer kegs for stools. On the corner, the crowd is growing to immense proportions. I debate whether I should go in. 

The boy of whom we'd spoken was Henry's only son. His name was

Jeffrey, and of course he was called Jeffy, or Jiffy Pop... A father is generally supposed to like his daughter best, and though he did all he could not to show his preference, there was no doubt that the greater share of Henry Garnet's affection was given to his son. He was kind, in a chaffing, casual way, to his daughter. He gave her handsome presents on her birthday and at Christmas; but he doted on Jeffy. Nothing was too good for him. He thought the world of Jeffy, could hardly take his eyes off him. You could not blame him, for Jeffy was a son that any parent might have been proud of.