Tommy Pucci was on the bar at Fugazy’s. I drank two beers before I started the questions. That is protocol. In Chelsea protocol is as rigid as it is at the Court of St. James, maybe more rigid. With my third beer I asked the question. Tommy wiped the bar.

‘I ain’t seen Olsen,’ Tommy said.

‘For the record or for real?’ I said. ‘Jo-Jo is clean. A friend just wants to find him.’

Pucci thought. It must have seemed safe. ‘I ain’t seen him in a couple days. I told Vitanza.’

‘Tell me something you didn’t tell Pete. Any friends, girls, Pete doesn’t know about.’

Tommy thought. ‘Maybe the Rukowski pig.’

‘A girl?’

‘Jenny Rukowski. I seen Jo-Jo go out with her sometimes. I never seen Vitanza near her.’ Tommy grinned. ‘I figure Jo-Jo is maybe ashamed he’s seen with Rukowski. I know how he feels.’

‘Where do I find her?’

‘Wait around. Only she don’t come in that much.’

Tommy went to tend to business. Rukowski had to be Polish. Polish meant Roman Catholic. I dropped money and a buck for Tommy and walked a couple of blocks to St. Ignatius (Polish) Roman Catholic Church: Father Martinius Reski.

Father Reski turned out to be an old man who knew Jenny Rukowski all right — a no-good girl who never came to mass. When I told him that I was a cop of sorts, he gladly gave me her address. I think he hoped that Jenny, the tragedy of her poor mother’s life, was about to be punished for her wickedness.

The address was near the church. It was the usual shabby tenement. The Rukowskis lived on the third floor. The girl who finally answered my knock was tall and big all round. She looked like she was sleeping off a hippo of a hangover when I knocked.

‘Jo-Jo Olsen!’ she said when I asked. As if it was a dirty word.