Ret pulls to the curb and leaves the car in drive. Mac cranes to look into the Coney Island, but it's empty other than Paletello, fiddling with the scanner. No Glasseye, no Martin.
Mac contorts further, as if it's possible to be overlooking some lone obscured figure. "Well. Come on in man, let me buy you a chili dog."
"No thanks, man. I gotta go."
Mac looks back inside at the emptiness, then at Ret again. Mac's fingers drum on the passenger door, his head twitchy like a sparrow's.
Ret's voice is soft. "Hey. Martin show up soon."
"Yeah. Listen," he says quickly, "Sorry about your sister. If I ever met her, man, I wouldn't bug her. That was just me talking."
"It's okay, don't worry about it."
"You sure?"
"Yeah, sure. Thanks for coming along tonight."
"You'll find him. I got my eye out." Mac does a power salute from the sidewalk. Ret does not laugh. The Olds rattles off down DeSiard with a sound like receding thunder.
