“Every marriage is a business deal,” she said. “But maybe some partnerships are also rescue operations.”… Zu froze with the paper bag still in her hand. The wind coming off the Hudson carried the smell of rain, engine oil, and roasted nuts from a nearby street cart. Behind them, lower Manhattan glowed in the blue-gray light of early evening: glass towers reflecting wealth so enormous it barely resembled money anymore. Hedge-fund offices. Luxury condos owned by shell companies. Art galleries laundering reputations as often as paintings. And standing between those worlds was the old homeless woman. Tom smiled awkwardly, one hand tucked into the pocket of his wool coat. “Mom,” he repeated gently, “this is Zu.” The old woman straightened a little. Up close, she looked less like a beggar and more like someone who had slowly fallen out of society’s frame. Her coat was patched but once expensive. Her fingernails, though dirty, had been ...