Mr. Moore turned to Cyrus. “Go.”

The pair of us sprang toward the elevator. Before re-entering it, however, I paused just long enough to turn back to Mr. Moore. “You don’t think we should-”

Mr. Moore shook his head quickly. “We don’t know what this is yet. I won’t ask him to come back to this place until we’re sure.”

Cyrus put a hand to my shoulder. “He’s right, Stevie. Let’s go.”

I stepped into the elevator, Cyrus slammed the grate, and we moved back down the shaftway.

Because the Hotel St. Denis was right across the street, Number 808 had always been an easy spot to catch a cab at almost any hour of the day or night: there were two lined up outside the hotel when Cyrus and I crossed to it. The first was a four-wheeler, captained by an ancient geezer in a faded red liveryman’s jacket and a beat-to-hell top hat. He was nodding off in his seat and stank of booze from six feet away. His horse, however, was a good-looking gray mare who seemed game.

I turned to Cyrus. “Get him in the back,” I said, jumping into the driver’s seat and starting to haul the old man out of it. “Hey-hey, pop! Up and at ’em, you’ve got a fare!”

The old man made some drunken, confused sounds as I shoved him toward the little iron step on the carriage’s left side and down to Cyrus: “What-what do you think-what’re you doing?”

“Driving,” I answered, seating myself and taking the horse’s reins.

“You can’t drive!” the man protested as Cyrus forced him into the passenger compartment and sat alongside him, closing the little doors.

“We’ll double your rate,” Cyrus answered, keeping a good grip on the man. “And don’t worry, the boy’s an excellent driver.”

“But you’ll queer me with the cops!” the old fool bellowed on, removing his top hat and showing us the license what was fastened to it. “I can’t have any trouble with the law-I’m a licensed hack, see?”

“Yeah?” I looked back at him, grabbed the hat, and shoved it onto my own head. “Well, now I am-so sit back and pipe down!”