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I nodded and felt real empathy.

“You in a new play?” she asked then.

“What?”

“The mustache,” she said. “And those silly sideburns.”

“How can you tell?”

“This is an actors’ co-op,” she explained. “Everyone here knows makeup, camera shots, and about hundred thousand lines of bad writing.”

“Just came from a dress rehearsal at BAM,” I said. “A play we’re debuting in Cincinnati. Right now I’m going to run some lines for another project.”

“With who?”

“I’d tell you, but I don’t think her husband would like it.”

The older lady with the dead fox around her neck smiled and bowed her head ever so slightly.

Dog lady got off at the fourteenth floor and I traveled alone to twenty-eight.

I walked halfway down the hall of doors to my left and pressed the button on the jamb of twenty-eight thirteen. There was no faraway sound of a bell or buzzer, but I didn’t want to seem impatient and so refrained from following up with a knock.

“Who is it?” came a woman’s voice.

“Joe Oliver.”

“You don’t look like him.”

I wondered if Lamont had somehow taken a cell phone picture of me or if he just told her what I looked like.

“I put on the mustache and shaved the head because I didn’t want anybody recognizing me on the case. I could call Mr. Charles at the Aramaya if you want.”

After a brief pause she pulled the door open.

Miranda Goya was one of the most beautiful women I, or the dog in me, had ever seen. She was in her late twenties but had the stance of a veteran. Her knee-length dress was composed of equal swirls of purple, red, and green. Her figure denied the garment and, I was sure, had betrayed her again and again from the age of thirteen. Her face was heart-shaped and haughty; the blended color of ethereal rose-gold and earthbound bronze informed her skin.

I crossed the threshold and she moved to the side.

She bit her lower lip as I took off the bulky coat.

“That coat makes you look fat.”

“Thank God for small blessings.”

“Go on in,” she offered.

It was a small studio with a diaphragm-high wall separating the kitchen from the living room. The wall was mounted by a flat, two-foot-wide Formica-covered plank that was both her dining room and desk. A glass double door formed her outer wall; this led to a tiny terrace that looked north toward Harlem. Next to the glass door was a huge bird-of-paradise in a ten-gallon clay pot sporting eleven of the gorgeous orange-and-blue blossoms.

“Mr. Oliver?” she said.

“Yes?”

“Is that your real name?”

“Yes, it is.”

I took out my wallet and handed her my PI’s license. She took the laminated card and compared it to the bald man standing before her.