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CHAPTER 54

THE SUNNYTIME DINER would fit perfectly in, say, Kansas or South Dakota. The place has five twirling counter stools covered in fake-marbled plastic. There are four booths for customers, and there’s not only a Coca-Cola dispenser but also one devoted exclusively to Orange Crush.

But Sunnytime is not in some faraway state. No, Sunnytime is at 59th Street and First Avenue, a little more than a block east of the bridge.

At three o’clock in the morning, six people are squeezed into a booth designed to accommodate four.

This is an impromptu event arranged by Maddy, the person who only two hours earlier was demonstrating her extraordinary skills as a fighter. Some of the young drug runners working the 59th Street Bridge area were afraid she was an NYPD decoy. Now they don’t know what to think. One thing is certain, though—they want Maddy on their side.

Maddy has a tale to tell, and Mama-Girl suggested theymove away from their “office” and settle in Sunnytime… what she calls “the break room.” Then she adds, “A good story is always improved by a plate of great flapjacks and shitty coffee.”

Everyone agreed, and the group is about to collectively destroy twenty-five pancakes and three carafes of coffee. When Maddy surveys the crowded table, she can’t keep herself from counting that among them all, they’re about to consume twenty-five pancakes.

Although Maddy is paying, she’s not eating. These girls need the food more than she does, and besides—her job here is to talk.

CHAPTER 55

“YOU ALL FIGURED out by now that I’m not police. I’m just an ordinary person like the rest of you.”

Kailyn immediately interrupts.

“Don’t go spoiling everything by starting to lie, girl. You’re no ordinary person. We just saw you wipe out one of New York’s ugliest, toughest groups of scumbags ever. So don’t go saying—”

“Okay, so I have a few special skill sets,” Maddy admits. “I want to use those skills to do something that needs doing. To help you. All of you.”

She takes a big gulp of Sunnytime’s particularly lousy coffee, then continues talking.

“I know that some kids in your line of work have disappeared. Two of them that I know about are a girl named Chloe and a boy named Travis.”

Interruption time again. A girl Maddy vaguely remembers—a tall, skinny red-haired girl with a concerned look on her face—speaks up: “They’re only the tipof the hot dog. And don’t fuck with me, I’m being funny. I know it’s supposed to be ‘iceberg.’”

“Shut it up,” says one girl. “This is serious stuff. Plus your joke sucks.”

“The only person here that sucks hot dogs is me,” Mama-Girl says, her fork in the air. “But Jacine is right. It ain’t just Chloe and Trav. There’s been Rosella, Jada, and Melissa and maybe even five or six more.”

She leans in toward Maddy. “I could go on and on. Listen, I try to watch out for these girls, but the men who run this show are brutal, and the woman at the top is even worse. You want to know where Trav and Chloe are? Try the cemetery. Try the Gowanus Canal. Try heaven.”

It suddenly seems that no one is interested in their food anymore. All forks are down.

With all the very real sincerity that’s inside her, Maddy says, “Then, help me. I can’t do anything to protect you if I don’t have information.”

And they do. Slowly at first, with one girl speaking, then another nudging her friend, who also chips in. The group gains momentum, and soon they are interrupting one another, contradicting and teasing. But they are talking.

They all agree that right around the time Chloe and Travis disappeared, there was a Cadillac that had been driving around the bridge for quite a few days. Not one of their regular drivers or drop-offs.

“And not any of the usual johns,” Mama-Girl chimes in.

“Was it a big Cadillac?” Maddy asks.

“No,” says one of the girls. “It was a small SUV, like the Cadillac XT4 from back in the 2020s.”

“How do you know so much about cars, girl?” says someone.

“There’s lots of stuff I know that you don’t know I know. Ask me state capitals. Go ahead. Ask me. Nevada, Carson City…”

Maddy jumps in. “What color was the car?”

No arguments. Everyone agrees that it was dark green. And, no, no one thought to write down the license plate. And, no, since the car windows were shaded dark, no one has any idea what the driver looked like.