“Victor doesn’t like violence,” I said.

“How did he kill your wife?” asked Greg.

“Hit-and-run,” I said.

“Tapping each other’s just a joke with my friend,” said Greg to Victor. “It’s a joke. Don’t be lame.”

Victor was on his knees now, palms on his thighs. He was wearing purple Northwestern University sweatpants. They didn’t come close to being compatible with his Bulls shirt.

“Nonviolent hit-and-run Buddhist, right?” asked Greg. “Do you know there are an estimated seven million Buddhists in China?”

Victor was on his bare feet now, touching his face to find out if he could go another day without shaving. He didn’t answer Greg Legerman, who turned to me and said, “Well, will you take the job?”

“You haven’t told me who you want to find.”

“Horvecki’s daughter,” said Winn. “She was a witness. Ronnie says she was there when he died. Now she’s missing. Or find who killed Horvecki, or both. Charge double.”

“No,” I said.

“You haven’t heard what happened,” said Greg.

“I don’t care. I’m sorry.”

Greg looked at me, stood up, went behind his chair, and rocked it slightly. He was a short, reasonably solid kid.

“You don’t look sorry,” Greg said.

“I don’t need the work,” I said.

“We need the help,” Greg said.

Nothing he said had turned it for me, but something happened that made me open the door at least a little.

“Let’s go, Greg,” said Winn. “The man has integrity. I like him.”

Greg was shaking his head “no.” Victor walked behind the two boys and headed out the front door. He was almost certainly headed to the washroom at the end of the outdoor second-floor concrete landing. Either that or he was headed back to Chicago barefoot. It would not have surprised me.

“Wait,” Greg said, shrugging off the hand that his friend had put around his bicep.