WE WERE crossing the Triboro Bridge before Michelle spoke.
"You think the Mole feels that way about me?"
"You know he does. Always has."
She lit one of her long black cigarettes. "He never said…"
"Neither did you."
I hooked the East Side Drive, high-rise lights flashing past us.
"You miss her?"
"I'll always miss her."
"Belle's dead, baby. You know who I mean."
The Plymouth sharked its own way through the light traffic.
"Sometimes," I said.