I laugh.
“You already met him, four times actually, no—five by now.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No,” I say. “Rossi is just that good.”
“One day,” she says threateningly.
“One day, you will love him just like I do,” I say as I finish my salad. “Come to my place tonight.”
“To meet him?”
“No, silly,” I say. “Just come, you’ll see.”
With that, I throw the paper box and the fork into the trash can and get up.
“Where are you going?”
“We have a thief to find, haven’t we? We won’t find her by sitting in this office.”
With that, I am gone.
I don’t walk home. I walk to Madison Square Park and sit on my bench.
Then, I wait.
A dog jumps at me, and I give it a cuddle.
“Hi, cutie,” I say and ruffle through his longer fur.
“I see they reinstalled the collar,” says a known voice, and when I look up, I see Rossi. Dressed up as the Greenwich Village eccentric he is in his heart, except for the very blonde hair on his head.
“Nice hair,” I say and laugh. “Where did you get the dog?”
Rossi points at something, and I see Omar dancing with himself on the grass some yards away from us.
I sigh.
“He has a dog now,” I say, as a statement, not a question.
“He wants to go steady, babe,” says Rossi as he sits on his bench next to mine. “He likes you.”
“Omar despises me,” I say.
“Not Omar, silly, Peter,” he says and points at the dog.
“Omar has a dog whose name is Peter? Are you fucking kidding me?”
“What would be a better name? Do you want to scream Habibi or Fighter Jet through Manhattan?”
I laugh.
“So your little stunt went unpunished?” he asks.
“Apparently,” I say, and we both watch Omar dancing. Omar is a ballet dancer with a love for performance.
“Come on, babe, give me something,” he says.
