2 A.M. at The Cat's Pajamas

3:00 P.M

Already evening is blotting out the city. Shadows web in the alleys on Ninth Street. The illuminated crew houses of Boathouse Row reflect in the unimpressed Schuylkill. The factory near Palmer belches filth toward New Jersey. Clouds flinch across the mackerel sky, bottoms silvered by the retreating sun.

Vince and Darla smoke in front of Beauty Land while inside, Jodi throws the switch. The sign ignites in pink and gold bulbs. “Should we sing?” Darla says.

Lorca walks Pedro down South Street, a lightweight rope improvised for a leash, grateful for the errand. There is a phone call he needs to make in private. Even on citation-less days, Sonny has a preternatural interest in Lorca’s schedule, but the cop’s visit has triggered the full breadth of his anxiety. Where are you going? When will you be back? Sonny asked three times before Lorca left.

Pedro jockeys sideways, hoping to trick the leash off. He tries contrary directions. He darts through parted legs, leaving Lorca to apologize around the last-minute shoppers. At a Don’t Walk light, the dog whines, pleads.

“You’re not the only one trying to escape.” Lorca points to a cedar-colored Rottweiler across the street, also trying to rid itself of a leash while its owner is distracted on a phone call. The collar slips off after another thrust and the dog freezes, stunned by success. Then, as if realizing the temporary nature of its fortune, the dog unlocks and gallops down South Street. Muscles beaming, it cuts such a figure that Lorca forgets what he’s watching is dangerous. A little girl points mutely. “That dog is running,” she reports to her mother. The Rottweiler’s agenda is a pit bull puppy waiting at a corner with its owner. Before Lorca can cross, because by now he, Pedro, and the rest of the street have realized the impending danger, the Rottweiler clamps onto the puppy’s neck and lifts it over the holiday scene.

The pit bull’s owner blinks at the two-canine altercation, unable to speak. The Rottweiler thrashes the puppy with elation. Its owner arrives, bringing new information, that the dog is a she, and her name is—“Grace!” she says. “Drop it.” A police officer is urged through the crowd by worried shoppers. He raises his gun, which has the desired effect of widening his working circle.

Lorca becomes light-headed. He can’t get clear which dogs are fighting and which are trying to take his club. The dogs in the fight. The dog by his side. The cop with a gun. The cop at the door. These dogs will be okay, he thinks, because they are not real. He is some way making this happen. Isn’t he? These aren’t real onlookers. That isn’t real blood. They will find the money. He won’t lose his club. Louisa will get over whatever mortal sin he committed and call him back. Suddenly, he feels hopeful, helpful.

“You can’t pull a dog from a dog,” he offers.

“I know that,” the officer says. “Don’t you think I know that?” He fires a nervous shot into the sky. Someone near Lorca screams. The Rottweiler drops the puppy, which takes a few foggy steps before being collected by its owner.

The officer replaces his gun in the holster. “Yes,” he says to the puppy being tended by its owner. “Yes,” he says to the Rottweiler being recollared. “Yes,” he says to the sky where he deposited the bullet. He bats at perspiration on his neck. He is coming to terms. “I wasn’t sure for a second, guys,” he says. “But that will just about do it.”