The bike ran silent at low speeds, its tires crunching over glass bottles and plastic syringes as she let the city come to her. Voices, shouts, dub music and country escaping behind closing doors, the burble of old gasoline V8 engines carrying Cosa Nostra to and from hits. Smells now, food trucks with sizzling meats that made her stomach groan with longing. Fast-food joints, grease-smeared windows hiding blurred figures. Every wall smothered with Televideo posters, their animated displays illuminating the slick street surface. Once, they had sold the usual range of street merchandise: drugs, knives, Virts. Now, they all ran the same political adverts, plastic voices chanting the slogans: