A blast of warm air, cinnamon, and nutmeg hit her in the face, thick enough to taste. The hooker hung back in the doorway, staring blearily at the room, the clean carpeted floor, comfortable warm chairs.

  “Shthis?” She squinted at a big-screen television set at the far end of the room. “Hey, wow. Cable?”

  Robby pulled hard, got her inside, and shut the door with a sense of relief—until she turned and saw Jim staring, and Kelly, and Mark. Mark had come in from the kitchen carrying a plateful of what looked like oatmeal cookies. Kelly half-reclined on the peach-colored sofa, People magazine draped forgotten over her chest. They all looked fascinated and horrified, like people passing a car wreck.

  Velvet leaned heavily against Robby, batted tear-clumped eyelashes, and said, “’Lo, folks.”

  “Not a word,” Robby snapped when Kelly opened her mouth; it shut again with a snap. “Ignore her. Ah—Velvet—why don’t you go in the bathroom and get cleaned up.”

  “Bathroom?” Velvet echoed. “Yeah. Good idea.”

  She pulled free of Robby’s grip and wandered off to the left, toward the closet. Jim grabbed her and pushed her in the right direction. Mark leaned over and looked at the oily shoeprints she’d left in the gray carpeting. The silence felt like interrogation.

  Robby sank into a floral armchair, closed her eyes, and pressed both hands against her throbbing forehead. After a minute, something cold touched her arm, and she looked up to find Mark holding out a bottle of Perrier, a serious look on his thin delicate face.

  “None of my business,” he said, “but, honey, I’d be a little choosier if I were you.”

  She took the bottle and knocked it lightly against the side of his head. He staggered back in mock pain and dropped into a chair on the other side of the couch, near Kelly.

  “It’s not funny,” said Jim. His voice was muffled, because he was in the process of stripping off layers of stinking sweaters and ragged shirts. His tatty raincoat lay in a tired slump on the carpet. “Well? Who is she?”

  “Nobody,” Robby said, and sipped. The water had a bitter undertaste, or maybe that was just her mood. “A drunk. Look, she tagged me in the bar, then followed me out on the street. I almost got busted before I quieted her down. Just leave her alone. I’ll feed her some drinks, and she won’t remember her name, much less where she’s been.”

  Jim fought his way free of the sweaters and stood there, hair a leonine bristling mass around his face, glaring at her. He picked up the clothes and began stuffing them into a garbage sack, the better to ferment the odors.

  “Stupid,” he muttered. “Unbelievable. This is my home, Robby, what were you thinking? Oh, forget it.”

  “You’ll feel better after you take a shower,” Mark offered kindly. Jim’s eyes sleeted over.

  “There is a hooker in my bathroom.”

  On cue, there was noise from that direction. Bumps. Knocks. The struggle subsided into ominous silence. Robby sagged deeper into her armchair under the weight of Jim’s stare.

  “Sorry.”

  “Let’s just get this over with,” Jim said with careful precision. “Kelly?”

  Kelly, still smirking, sat up and pulled her purse out from under the table. She spilled out wallets and began stripping the contents into neat piles. Identification, credit cards, cash. Mark opened his back-pack, searched between textbooks, and added his take to the pile. Robby flicked the latches on her briefcase and pulled cash from under her carefully folded business suit and shoes.

  “My Amex guy’s out of town,” Mark said as he sorted credit cards into stacks—green, silver, gold. He frowned over a couple and put them aside in a reject pile. “Jim, you got anybody for those?”

  “Amex? No. I’ll take VISA and MasterCard. Oh, and Antoine says he can move all the ID we have.”

  “That’s good, ’cause it looks like I got a lot of it today. Shit, you’d think these SMU assholes would have cash.” Mark himself was a sometime-student at Texas Christian University, an arch-rival of Southern Methodist University, and appropriately prejudiced on the subject.

  “ATM cards?” Robby asked, and held up one in its suede-paper folder. Kelly beckoned without looking up; Robby slid it over the table toward her.

  “Sol will want it.”

  The name cast a quiet chill over the room. Robby glanced up and saw Jim staring down at the carpet, brow furrowed.

  “Yeah, well, I’m sure he does.” Jim snatched up his raincoat and raided the hidden inner pockets, finding a steady trickle of cash, wallets, and cards. His hands were the only part of him that didn’t fit his homeless image—smooth hands, compact, adept as any stage magician’s. The first time she’d met him, Robby had hardly felt the dip that took her watch, and god knew she’d been looking for it.

  She smiled at him and saw him look away. The pain took her unexpectedly; it hurt to have him mistrust her, after three years of perfect partnership. Mark, Kelly—she liked them, in a fondly annoyed way. But Jim—

  In the bathroom, the shower came on. Jim’s eyes widened, and his mouth opened. Before he could get out whatever damning thing he was thinking, the bathroom door banged open.

  “Hey!” The hooker held onto the door and leaned out, naked, barely covered by the angle. “Hey, where’sa soap?”

  “In the soapdish,” he said wearily. The hooker disappeared back into the bathroom, and the door slammed. More bumps and bangs, the rattle of a shower curtain. “Robby—”

  “I know. I’m sorry.” She spread her hands helplessly.

  He shook his head and counted bills; it was something his fingers did automatically, a machine-quick fanning of paper. Robby began counting her stack, lost track, and had to start again.

  By the time she’d finished, everyone else was done. She took a deep breath and handed over her totals.

  “Slow day,” Kelly said neutrally, as she added on a pocket calculator. “Jim, what you figure on cards?”

  “I can get fifty each.”

  “I’ll say forty, in case. Yeah, okay. I’ll let you know about the ATM totals. Right now, it’s—” She held up the calculator and angled it to get a better look. “Three thousand seven hundred ninety-three. Minus Sol’s slice, of course.”

  “Of course,” Jim said. “If he’s coming.”

  “Not today. He said for me to take it for him.” Kelly was looking down at her calculator; over her head, Jim looked across at Robby. The doubt was subtle but real, and she knew he read it in her face, too. Sol was a necessary evil—the local wiseguys needed to feel in control—but Kelly had slowly but surely become Mafia-by-marriage, only without the marriage. Nobody liked it.

  Nobody had much to say about it, either.

  “Ooh, honey, sounds serious,” Mark cooed. She slapped his hand. “Carrying his money. More important than carrying his baby.”

  “Shut up,” Kelly said, a little too sharply. Her round face colored shell-pink. “He asked me to do it.”

  “Uh-huh. Sure he did.”

  “Mark—”

  “Heck, honey, I don’t care, I was just hoping for a second date with him.” Mark batted his eyelashes. Robby saw the malicious gleam in his smile and winced. Kelly didn’t tease well. “Those Italians. Spicy sausage.”

  “Shut up!” No pink in those cheeks now, hot little spots of red. “You flaming—”

  “Children,” Jim said flatly, and reached over Kelly’s shoulder to pick up a stack of cash. “Seven-o-five in cash, right?”

  “Right,” she said; she was still glaring at Mark. “We’ll split the credit card and ATM money on Thursday.”

  “Good. Now. Robby—”

  “I know,” Robby sighed. “Get the hooker out of your shower.”

  What the hell was she doing in the rain? The ground underneath her felt cool and smooth. She wiggled a little. Her skin squeaked—oh, god, she’d lost her clothes someplace. What the hell—

  Ah. Naked. Shower. Oh, yeah. No wonder the rain was warm. Velvet let her head loll forward, and the warmth beat on the back of her neck with tiny balled fists. Jesus, yes. Just what she needed. Time to relax, to get her head together—

  Where the fuck was she?

  The shower curtain rattled, and she looked up, right into the rain. She snorted it out of her nose and tried to focus on the shadow standing there.

  A French-manicured hand reached down and turned off the HOT. Velvet blinked, confused, unable to imagine what that meant.

  The water turned ice cold and slammed down on her like sleet. She shrieked and covered her head, but that only sent cold water sluicing down her sides. She flailed around and caught hold of the old-lady handhold on the wall and got her feet under her.

  It was a mistake. She’d forgotten about the pink soap in the tub, and it made a nice skate. She lost her balance and pitched forward into the tile wall.

  “Ow,” she said, pitifully. Her chin hurt, and when she swiped at it her fingers came away red. The blood dribbled off in the water, misted pink, and disappeared. She slapped at the COLD knob until the sleet stopped.

  The shower curtain rattled back. Velvet turned her head and glared through a wet curtain of hair at the suit—what the hell was her name—who held out a towel.

  “Bitch,” Velvet said hoarsely. The suit’s smile was bone-thin, her brown eyes amused. She wasn’t wearing the glasses anymore, probably didn’t even need them, more stage dressing.

  “Dry off. I’ll get you some clothes.”

  “I don’t wear suits,” Velvet snapped; her voice sounded almost normal again. “Don’t bring me a goddamn Hillary Clinton suit.”

  The suit shrugged and walked out of the bath-room, shutting the door behind her. Velvet sat down on the toilet and toweled her hair without much enthusiasm.

  “Hey, get me a drink while you’re out there!” she yelled. That was habit; she wasn’t even really thirsty. She raked her toes through thick gray carpet; her skin looked blue. She shivered and stood up to dry off. When she was done, she turned and looked in the mirror.

  Her hair was a curly wet mess. Her chin looked raw where she’d scraped it open. Red patches on her knees, on the palms of her hands—how the hell would she explain it to—

  “To Ming,” she said aloud to her own pale scared reflection. “Oh, Jesus, I forgot. I forgot.”

  Ming didn’t like girls who forgot. Velvet swallowed and tried a smile; it trembled and looked pasty and unnatural.

  “Carpet burns. They’re carpet burns. He was—ah—Jesus. Jesus.”

  She wrapped the towel around her body and sank back on the toilet, knees apart, staring down at the floor. Whosis, the guy with the hair, he was a clean housekeeper. No bugs caught in the carpet. No mold in the corners.

  The door swung open, and the suit pushed an arm-load of clothes at her. Velvet took them to keep from getting hit in the face, and by the time she’d dropped them on the floor, the door was shut again. She picked up the shirt with two fingers and examined it. She’d look like shit in black. Well, at least it had buttons—she could leave it open to the bra line—

  Oh, yeah, speaking of that, no way was she wearing a Girl Scout Wonder Bra. She tossed it in the corner and looked at the underwear.

  Hopeless. Jesus.

  The blue jeans were good; she slipped them on and zipped them up and inspected the results. Okay. A little loose, but not enough to worry about. She tried teasing her hair out but it was just a mass of tangles. No makeup, of course, just guy stuff—she sniffed the bottle of aftershave, dabbed a smear in the hollow of her neck.

  The door opened, and the suit looked in. Superior little bitch; Velvet figured the jeans and shirt were from a Salvation Army sack in the back of her closet. She wouldn’t give the good stuff to a hooker.

  “Drink?” Velvet asked, and leaned toward the mirror to look at her chin. “Ow. Shit.”

  Cold pressure on her arm. Velvet looked down to find a glass of what was either water or vodka; she took it and sipped.

  Not water. She emptied it in a gulp.

  When she wandered out, dragging her torn dress and soggy mink, the suit was sitting on a peach-colored sofa, pretending to read a magazine. She had a glass in front of her, too, primly half-full. Velvet saw the bottle of Stoli on the kitchen bar and headed for it, poured herself a tall refill.

  “Feeling better?” The suit pretended to care. Velvet just drank. The warmth spread through her and triggered an earthquake in her stomach; she swallowed two or three times.

  “Yeah.” Her voice sounded softer than she meant it to, smeared by the drinks. “What’s it to you?”

  “I don’t want to haul your dead butt back out to the street.” That had the ring of truth. Velvet picked up the Stoli bottle, plopped herself in a big fat chair, and put her feet up on the coffee table. She raised the bottle vaguely in the suit’s direction.

  “Cheers.” She drank, a swallow of liquid ice. “Where’s your buddies?”

  “Gone.” The thief drank a little sip of what looked like Scotch. The taste of smoke shot through Velvet’s mouth, and her throat spasmed. “You could at least say thank you.”

  Velvet stared at her, then looked away. Whoever the guy with the hair was, he had nice digs; she liked the pictures on the wall. The TV looked like fun.

  The vodka picked her up on a big cold wave, and she shut her eyes. The world felt like it was sliding to the right; she leaned left to balance.

  “Thanks,” she said huskily. “For the—thing on the street. I think.”

  “You think?” the suit snorted. A picture popped into Velvet’s head, a fat metal robot, waving accordion arms.

  Robby. The suit’s name was Robby. Velvet celebrated with another mouthful of Stoli.

  “Been that kind of a day,” she said. She looked at the bottle—four inches left in it—and waggled it in Robby’s direction. “Gotta friend for this? ’S gonna get lonely.”

  “You realize that if I keep giving you drinks, you’re probably going to pass out.” Schoolteacher talk; the brown eyes behind those round glasses looked so damn fucking superior. Velvet flashed a tinsel-bright smile.

  “It’s a hobby.”

  She drank in silence, watched inches go down her throat as she thought about Ming. Maybe if she got drunk enough, she wouldn’t care about Ming, wouldn’t be scared. Maybe.

  Robby sipped like a goddamn PTA mom.

  “Y’ live here?” Velvet asked. Robby shook her head. “’S nice. Mean it. Nishe.”

  “What do you want?” Robby asked. Velvet faltered to a stop. She couldn’t quite remember, what with the pickup truck and the skinned patches on her knees and the—Burt—

  Burt. Just for a second in the bar, Robby had looked right at her, and there hadn’t been any goddamn superior bullshit, there had been understanding. She’d known what Velvet was talking about, all right.

  Robby’d seen it.

  “Burning,” Velvet said. Robby’s gaze went deep-sea diving to the carpet. “C’mon, don’t. You know. Y’do.”

  Her tongue was thick again, sloshing around in her mouth like a squid—now there was a disgusting thought, enough to make her barf. She’d eaten squid once. The taste came back, and she washed it down with vodka.

  “Yeah,” Robby said. Velvet leaned forward and had to brace herself with a hand on the coffee table. She dropped the Stoli bottle, but it didn’t matter, there wasn’t enough left in it to spill. “I’ve seen it.”

  “Sho—so you seen it, I seen it—how ’bout that? Kinda strange, huh?”

  Robby sipped Scotch. She wouldn’t meet her eyes. Velvet hiccuped and covered her mouth. Her fingers felt remote and rubbery and cold.

  “Unless it happens alla time,” Velvet finished. Robby looked up, eyes wide. “Doesn’t. Does it?”

  Robby got her another bottle. They shared it.

  Incident One

  CHICAGO, ILLINOIS

  Kevin Baird Tannery eased back into the bubbles of the Jacuzzi and accepted a fluted glass of champagne; a cheap vintage, biting, but good enough for the present company. Little Sharon Rose was not enormously sophisticated about bubbly, or anything else, but she looked appropriate in a string bikini. Ah, that reminded him—he slipped his free hand under the hot skin of the water and touched cloth. There was a catch at the back—one quick twist of his fingers, and the bright pink top floated off on a cloud of bubbles, and little Sharon Rose giggled nervously and smiled at him. He caressed the small brown nubs of her nipples and leaned in for a kiss, a long one, with tongue.

  She was clumsy, open mouth trembling and tasting of salt. He circled her nipples with his thumbs, not quite hard enough to hurt, and ran his hand down her flat smooth stomach to the thin bikini briefs. The curly mass of her pubic hair felt springy through the cloth. She made a squeaky sound of protest. He pinched her nipple harder, and smiled.

  “Oh—oh—don’t—I—”

  “Hush, my dear,” he said gently. The gentleness was really automatic; he no more cared what Sharon Rose had to say than he did what the veal thought about being the main course at dinner. What was important about Sharon Rose was that she was seventeen, and gullible, and easily left behind when that became necessary. Young enough to be piquant, old enough to be excusable. He was forced to save his enthusiasm for younger girls for rare trips out of the country, after the embarrassing contretemps in Dallas, which had only gone to prove that there really was no civilization in the western half of the country.

  Of course, there’d been that delicious little Asian girl in Los Angeles—fourteen? Wonderful. A juicy, eager mouth. A very pleasant memory.

  Sharon Rose was trying to keep her knees together, remembering too late a strict upbringing. He pried them apart with strong fingers and soft meaningless words. She began to cry, which was tiresome; he stripped the bikini briefs away and probed warm moist flesh, sipped champagne, described for Sharon Rose in detail what he wanted from her. Then he wiped her tears away with characteristic blank gentleness, and aroused himself with memories of the Asian girl—exceptional, that one, really. She’d be fifteen now. Not too old to be exciting.