Robby slapped the glass out of her hand. Velvet watched it spin off through the air, pinwheeling Scotch. She licked the drops off her fingers.

  “Hey,” she said. “Hey, I was drinkin’ that.”

  Robby pulled her to her feet, or tried to; Velvet couldn’t seem to stand up. Robby finally let her drop back to the couch. Velvet tried to focus both eyes on her, but it was way too much effort; she closed her right eye and focused her left. Something wrong with Robby’s face. Tears. Tears in her eyes, on her cheeks.

  Velvet got the bottle and tried to hand it to her. “Have a drink.”

  “No more, Velvet.” Na morrh. Robby’s Irish brogue had taken over, and so had her temper. She reached for Velvet’s shoulder and grabbed a handful of hair, too. Velvet batted feebly at her, making oww sounds. “You’ve got to stop lying to me, Velvet, you’ve got to, understand? We’re in trouble, both of us! Why did you do it? Why?”

  Every time Robby got to the end of a question, Velvet got shaken. In between the shakes, the room spun around, a neon technicolor whirl like a kaleidoscope, only Velvet was one of the little glass beads tumbling around.

  “Stop it!” she shouted, and slapped wildly, connected with skin. Robby pulled back. “Goddamn it, stop that!”

  Robby slapped her back hard enough to bring tears to her eyes and numb the whole side of her face. Unfortunately, it didn’t last. In the next few seconds her bruises woke up yelling, and she put her hands over her face and doubled over, moaning.

  Something smacked the floor next to her feet. She looked over the tips of her fingers and saw a newspaper. Her face looked ghostly and wasted, a beat-up hooker with dreamy-dead eyes. Her first thought was, God, he could’ve used a better mug shot than that.

  Robby said, “They put Jim in the hospital looking for you. It’s just a matter of time before they find both of us, and God help us then.”

  “J-Jim?” Velvet wiped her eyes on her sleeve and looked up at Robby’s face. Robby had stopped crying, but the look in her eyes was just as bad. “Jim? Wh-what happened?”

  “They broke his hands,” Robby whispered. “His hands.”

  I’m sorry sounded so lame when she tried it that she covered up her mouth with Scotch-damp hands. Sorry. Sorry. Always so fucking sorry, sorry about Amy, sorry about life, sorry for poor little Velvet. She was sick of being sorry.

  Then don’t keep fucking up, some part of her whispered. She gulped back tears and reached for the Scotch.

  Robby moved it out of the way. Their eyes met.

  “You have to get out of town,” Robby said, very clearly. “Tomorrow at the latest. Do you have any money?”

  “At—” Velvet bit her lip, did it too hard because of the Scotch, and tasted blood. “Shit. Had a stash at my apartment, but it’s gone.”

  “Anything?”

  “Not much.” That was the truth. She’d had money at some hazy, earlier point, but there’d been cab fares and meals and a couple bottles of booze and things she didn’t remember that had seemed real important at the time. “Not enough.”

  Robby looked around at her living room as if seeing it for the first time—the stereo, the CDs, the leather furniture.

  “I can sell some things, but not tonight. How much do you need?”

  “You—you’d sell your stuff for me?” Velvet pulled back, stunned and suspicious and strangely angry. “How come?”

  Robby stood up and walked over to the stereo cabinet, opened it and touched the black components inside, little sad touches of her fingers.

  “How come?” Velvet demanded again, leaning forward. “What the fuck makes you my social worker?”

  Robby steadied herself with one hand on the cabinet and turned to look at her. Her eyes were blind with tears.

  “Nothing,” she said. “Nothing at all.”

  It was gymnastics to stand up, ballet to keep from falling over. Velvet pulled herself as upright as the alcohol would let her and pushed her tangled hair back from her face.

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m getting the hell out of here, and I won’t be coming back.” She took two steps and her foot went limp as a noodle under her. She pushed herself straight off the back of a chair and tried for an exit again.

  “Take anything you want,” Robby said when she’d reached the hallway. Her voice sounded so strange, so faraway. “I’ll have to leave it all behind anyway.”

  By the time she got to the bedroom door, Velvet was so angry she was sick. She limped to the closet and threw back the doors, yanked clothes off the hangers and tossed them on the floor, on the neon blue bed, anywhere they’d fall. Tans. Off-whites. Browns. Muted this and pastel that, little fucking girl clothes, Jesus, didn’t she have—

  At the end of the closet, shoved behind a pair of threadbare blue jeans with bleach stains, hung a butter-soft leather jacket with long threadlike fringe. Velvet slid it off the hanger, and it collapsed like a pet in her hands, purring. There was a skirt, too, short, slit up the side. She laid them reverently on the bed, staring.

  She touched the fringe the way Robby had touched the stereo components, gently, like someone petting a friend’s show dog. God, it was beautiful. She’d never seen anything so beautiful.

  From the doorway, Robby said, “Take it. I don’t need it.”

  When Velvet turned around, jacket clutched tight in her arms, Robby wasn’t there. She listened, but she didn’t hear any footsteps.

  Another fingernail split as she fought the buttons of her flannel shirt, the tight zipper on the pants. She kicked the dirty clothes off to mix with the clean ones she’d thrown out of the closet, and slowly, so slowly, slid the skirt up over her hips.

  The zipper sounded like a whisper. The fit was perfect. Velvet kept her black front-close bra and slid the jacket over it, silk lining cool on her skin and warming up, leather a thick soft cushion around her.

  In the corner she found her black patent leather fuck-me pumps, only a little scuffed at the heels. She stood in front of the mirror on the closet door and turned slowly, unsteadily, watching the leather gleam.

  “God,” she said reverently. It was as close as she’d gotten to a prayer in years.

  The doorbell rang; she lost her balance on the high heels and sat down on the bed hard enough to make the springs squeak. The room lurched into spin dry.

  God, it was Sol, come to beat her up again—or worse, it was those assholes from the dry cleaners—or—

  Robby ran by the door, backtracked and traded a look with her.

  “Stay here,” she said, and swung the door shut. Velvet clutched handfuls of neon blue comforter and waited, eyes shut, while the room dipped and danced.

  She didn’t hear anything from the hall, not even the locks clicking back. She’d hear something, wouldn’t she, if somebody broke in? If they started kicking the shit out of—

  Wouldn’t she? Oh, God. If they did, what would she do? No back way out, no place to hide, nothing to fight with. Oh, God. She was suddenly convinced that she would throw up, and looked frantically around for a trash can, a plastic bag, anything. There was a trash can across the room, but that was ten steps, at least.

  She covered her mouth with her hands and bent over to put her head between her legs.

  Two, maybe three breaths later, she heard the bed-room door open, and a man’s voice said, “Are you okay?”

  She looked up with both hands still wrapped around her mouth.

  It was Paolo. He had a gun.

  She passed out.

  When she came around, he had put the gun away and was holding her in his arms, wiping her face with a warm damp cloth. She choked on the taste in her mouth and dry-heaved; he grabbed a trash can he’d brought over and held it under her mouth, but she didn’t do much more than drool in it. He wiped her chin.

  “Better?” he rumbled. She’d never noticed it before, but his eyes were green with brown rings. “You shouldn’t drink so much, Velvet.”

  “Thank you, Betty Ford. Hey, sorry about the mess, I—I got the flu. My friend’s been taking care of me.”

  Paolo took a folded newspaper out of his pocket and handed it to her. She didn’t have to look to know which article he was pointing to.

  “Yeah, I know, it looks bad—but honest, Paolo, swear to God, I didn’t—this guy, he fucked me over, I told him not to use my name, honest.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” Paolo looked sad, as much as his blocky massive face could. “Ming’s unhappy. Very unhappy.”

  “I know.” She swallowed hard and looked at the bedroom door; it was open. “Um, where’s my friend? Robby?”

  “In the living room.”

  “Uh-huh. Um, sorry, but is she, like, okay? You didn’t—”

  Paolo stared at her with his eyebrows bunched together like hairy spiders, green eyes the color of old grass. He shook his head.

  “Oh. Good. So, she’s, she’s okay. Right?”

  He didn’t nod. Oh, God.

  “Do I have to go back? Is that why you’re here?” More blank stares. She felt a shiver in her back pull her shoulders tighter. “I have to go back, right? Take my medicine?”

  “Medicine,” he repeated. “No. Don’t go back.”

  He took the gun out of his jacket pocket and looked at it through slitted eyes. She held very still while he thought about it.

  After a minute or so, he looked up and said, “Don’t go back, Velvet. She wants to kill you.”

  She opened her mouth but couldn’t think of a damned thing to say, just watched him fiddle nervously with his gun. He finally jammed it back in his pocket, threaded his fingers together, and stared down at them.

  “You look nice,” he said at last. “Real nice. Except for the bruises.”

  “Story of my life,” she whispered. “Thank you, Paolo. Really. Thanks.”

  He nodded, little delicate bobs of his head that looked crazy on a guy his size. She fingered the fringe of her leather jacket and watched him from the corner of her eye.

  “You want something?” she asked. He stopped nodding. “For, you know, old times’ sake? If you want, I’ll do it.”

  His head moved slowly, like it didn’t want to, until he was looking her in the eye.

  “I love you,” he said. “I do. You don’t have to do anything. Just don’t go to Ming.”

  Kissing him seemed like the right thing to do, so she gave him one quick moist one; he didn’t try to hang on to her when she pulled away. Instead, he reached in his pocket again.

  Oh, Christ, I knew it. He’s going to HU me because he loves me.

  He pulled out a piece of paper and a short stack of twenties.

  “You should leave town,” he said. “I know you don’t got any money, but here’s some, about two hundred. And this guy, he wanted to hire you for a night. He said he’d pay real good. Ming told him no, because she was mad at you, but if you call I bet he’d still pay good.”

  The name was Henry Parriott. It was a local phone number.

  “Are you going to be okay with this?” Velvet asked. He shrugged toward his shoe tops.

  “Ming wanted me to find you. I didn’t find you. It’ll be okay.” He cleared his throat, a sound like rocks grinding. “Be careful.”

  “Yo, you bet. You too.” He deserved one more peck on the cheek for his money. “Hey, Paolo? I always liked it with you. Really.”

  “Really?” He smiled. It shocked the hell out of her, because he had a nice smile, when he wanted to use it. “Thanks.”

  He stood up and walked out. She wobbled after him on her high heels and slowed when she caught sight of Robby lying on the couch.

  “It’s okay, she’s sleeping,” he said, and opened the front door. “I had to hit her, but I didn’t hit her too hard. Bye, Velvet.”

  “Bye.”

  As she locked the door behind him, she heard him humming something. It sounded like the theme to the “Love Boat.”

  Robby was going to have a hell of a bruise on her chin.

  After four rings, a man’s voice said, “Hello?” He had a high thin voice that reminded her of telephone wires humming in the wind.

  “Mr. Parriott?” she asked, and took a short sip from a glass of Scotch. Her buzz had passed with her fright, and she was doing her best to spin it back up.

  “Yes-s-s.” He sounded doubtful. “May I ask who’s calling?”

  “Maybe.” She swirled the liquor and watched the overhead lights through the thick amber filter. “Maybe it’s somebody you want to hear from.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t—”

  “Velvet,” she said, and took another drink during his silence. “Interested?”

  He cleared his throat and said, “Yes, of course. But I understood you were not available.”

  “Yeah, well, plans change. What exactly do you want?”

  “Well, I—I don’t know—the night. I’d like to book you for the evening.”

  “All evening?” She finished the Scotch and set the glass down with a tinny clink on the kitchen counter. “My, my. You’re ambitious.”

  “How much?”

  “One thousand.”

  She’d intended it as a starting point, the rock bottom price being five hundred, but he only said, “Fine,” which made her feel a little nervous, but not enough to pass up a thousand bucks. One last fling in Dallas. Might as well make it a big one.

  “Where do I go?” she asked. He fumbled the telephone and dropped it. She sighed and tapped her pencil on a pad of paper. “Yo, buddy, you there? Where?”

  “Meet me in the street behind the Spaghetti Warehouse downtown. You know where it is? Across from the Alley?”

  “I know where it is. Look, the weather’s pretty—”

  “I’ll pay extra,” he cut in. She wrote down alley spaghetti $. “I’ll send you something special to wear.”

  “I have my own stuff.”

  “But these clothes are very special.” His voice cranked a step or two higher on the tension scale. “Where can I send them?”

  “Whatever. Send them to 2212 Ross. Leave them hanging in the lobby.” That was the building across the street. She’d watch until the delivery guy was gone before going over. “When do you want me there?”

  “At three.”

  “Three?” Velvet checked the clock over Robby’s blood red sink. “Jesus, it’s already one-thirty.”

  “The clothes will be there in thirty minutes, I promise.” Mr. Parriott giggled like a breathless teen-aged girl. “I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Me too,” she breathed, and poured herself another slug of Scotch. “I can’t wait to see you.” She hung up while he was still giggling, stared at the phone, and said, “Jesus, what a prick.”

  “You don’t have to do this.”

  She whirled around, forgetting the fuck-me pumps and her general lack of balance, and almost pitched face forward to Robby’s Purina tile floor. Robby—pale and narrow-eyed and sporting a bruise like a rose tattoo on her chin—grabbed her arm and got her steady before reaching past her for the Scotch bottle.

  “Do what?” Velvet asked innocently. “Hey, I was using that!”

  “Too bad.” Robby took a glass from a cabinet and poured herself a tall drink. She tossed it back in two gulps, hardly pausing to make a face. “Mary Mother, that stuff’s awful, where’d you get it? Somebody’s bathtub?”

  “All that Irish crap rotted your taste buds.”

  Robby held the bottle out to her and said, “You don’t have to meet him. I told you, I’ll give you the money as soon as I can sell a few things.”

  There were about seven drops of liquor left; Velvet tipped the bottle and got rid of them. Before she could practice her three-pointer skill, Robby grabbed the bottle and dumped it carefully in the trash can. She rinsed out the two glasses and put them in the dish-washer.

  “If I’d wanted your money, I would have taken your shit while you were gone,” Velvet said, and straightened the hang of her black leather jacket. “Snazzy. So, you get this as a gift or what?”

  “A friend talked me into it. God knows I would never wear it, so you might as well. You’re going to meet this man at three? No matter what I say?” Robby looked sick in the white fluorescent light, green around the eyes.

  “Yep. You might find this hard to believe, but I don’t want to fuck you up any more than I already have. Look, I know all this is my fault—if I’d kept my mouth shut the way everybody wanted, none of this would have happened, Jim wouldn’t have got beaten up, people would still be—anyway, the best thing I can do is get the hell out of here, now, to-night. I spend the night with Mr. Prick and pick up enough cash to travel, and tomorrow I see a new sky-line. It’s no big deal. I did it before.”

  More than once, new towns and new Mings and bruises that never quite healed. But with a little money in her pocket—

  Who was she kidding? A little money in her pocket would be gone in a week, and she’d be moaning in the backseat of a car, only the cars would get cheaper and the guys would get meaner, and pretty soon—

  What was it the fake Agent James had said? Ten buck a fuck whore?

  Robby was mopping up little smears on the countertop with a neatly folded rag. She looked ready to drop.

  “It’s the only way they won’t come after you,” Velvet finished, and walked over to watch out the window for somebody bringing clothes to the building across the street.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Martin

  Martin had never worn a bulletproof vest before, and he didn’t like it much. It felt like wearing one of his Aunt Martha’s hand-knitted sweaters, lumpy and suffocating and ugly as hell. He picked at the Velcro fasteners until Mrs. Womack slapped his hand.

  “I don’t like bringing you into this at all,” she said, and stepped back to admire the fit. “Still, I suppose we have to make do. Agent Mendoza simply must stay with Carling in case anyone tries to get to her, which leaves me without a driver. I assume you can drive.”

  “I did okay earlier.” He knew he sounded defensive, but couldn’t tell if he sounded scared, which was how he felt. Mrs. Womack looked at him over the top of her glasses. She was wearing a bulky black sweater, a loose black skirt, and sensible black orthopedic shoes. Her support hose were black, too. She blended in to the dark shadows of the parking lot where they stood, except for the silver blue gleam of her hair and the glitter of her eyeglasses. He shivered in a new blast of arctic-cold wind and reached for his coat and gloves.