The other Cook lived in Brooklyn. After Jesso had taken Murph’s list, he decided on the Cook in Brooklyn first. Murph had finished with the carburetor in the meantime, so Jesso took Gluck’s car.

The address was a store that said, “Notions.” The dim insides hung full of dusty dresses, and everything looked twice as cheap where a naked bulb made a glitter on the boxes of fancy buttons. When Jesso came in, a fat woman with an apron over her coat was scratching a fingernail over the plastic eye of a button. “No, thanks, dearie, it ain’t what I want,” she said. Her other hand dropped something into her pocket. “No, dearie, this ain’t the right color,” she said, and left through the door.

The other one didn’t look any better. She watched Jesso walk up to the counter. When the glare from the bulb hit his face she said, “What do you want?”

“Buttons,” Jesso said.

She patted her hair. It was a rumpled gray and she kept patting it as if that were going to make a difference.

“The buttons I’m after are blue. Popeye blue, Mrs. Cook.”

She stopped patting. “How’d you know my name?”

“Your father told me.”

She leaned her face closer and Jesso saw wrinkles stretch in her neck.

“You’re lying. He ain’t left the back in years.” She straightened up again and folded her big arms. “What do you want, copper?”

Jesso laughed. Then he stopped and put his hands in his pockets. “Where’s Bonetti?”