She stuck the gun back in her pocket and ran toward the corner, toward the uneven moans, the whisper of skin on concrete. A pale face lifted toward her as she approached. The fast heave of Velvet’s breathing sounded like heartbeats.

  Robby cautiously squatted down and touched her hand. Velvet’s fingers curled around hers. After what seemed like a long time, Velvet said, “Thanks.” Her word sounded misshapen and thick. Her nose was bleeding, black ribbons down pale skin. She dabbed at it with her coat sleeve.

  “I’m sorry,” Robby said; it sounded awkward, horrible, stupid. She wanted to say I would have shot him to save you, I would have, but she knew it wasn’t really true, and the hooker wouldn’t believe it, anyway. “Do you want an ambulance?”

  “For this? Fuck it. He’s a pussy.” Velvet’s nails bit and relaxed on her fingers. “Well, maybe a couple of bandaids.”

  “I’ll take care of you,” Robby promised. Velvet coughed; it sounded wet.

  “What, again?” she asked, and laughed.

  Robby felt a tickle of relief and laughed, too, leaned forward and put her arm under Velvet’s shoulders. Velvet tried to get up and failed, kicked off her too-high shoes and succeeded. Robby grabbed the shoes and stuck them in her coat pocket.

  “Don’t know why you wear the damned things,” she murmured, and felt the pulse of Velvet’s laugh through her shoulders.

  “Basketball.”

  Jim heard them coming and swung the door open before she could knock. Robby stopped and squinted in the sudden light. She couldn’t see his face in the glare, only a silhouette like Sol’s. She paused and waited. The silence stretched. She thought he might close the door, but then he turned and stepped back. She barely heard his low rough voice say, “I’m not that scared, Robby.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Ming

  Ming had only been in the office twice—once, in the beginning, to let her know the risks of failure, and now. She had forgotten how dizzingly high it was, views of mist-gray clouds and a dim maze of streets below. The furniture was padded, the carpet lush, the colors warm and comforting.

  It should not have frightened her so.

  “Do you understand me?” the man on the other side of the desk asked. She nodded. Such a piggish little man, overweight, overdressed—he might have been one of her clients, coming to her for whippings and bootlickings and harnesses strapped cruelly tight. But this was a man who would never release control, never. “Tell me what you understand.”

  “You want no word of this event on the street. No rumors. No hints of trouble.” She was surprised that her voice was so steady, so smooth; so many years of performing had armored her better than she’d suspected.

  Another nod of her head, a gesture of respect. The man behind the desk blinked dead-quiet eyes. She thought about extinguishing a cigarette in the dark well of his pupils. The imagined humid smell washed over her.

  “And how do we keep her from talking?” he asked. Ming sat completely still, staring over his shoulder at the smoky gray of mist, the deceptive comfort of other offices in facing buildings. No one would see what happened here. No one would know. There were places in the world where the law did not reach—here—a room in Taiwan. A quiet room.

  She pulled herself from memory and met his eyes.

  “The surest way is to close the girl’s mouth,” she said. They both understood what was meant. “But if I may, this would be a great loss. She is very beautiful, very skilled. You will have many years of profit from her.”

  “I don’t like the risk.”

  “With respect, I questioned her myself. If you fear she knows what she should not—it is not so. She knows nothing of the man but the manner of his death. Even if she should talk unwisely, no one will believe her. No one.”

  The man at the desk studied Ming for a few seconds, then picked up a silver letter opener. As he toyed with it, the edge reflected hot silver, glittered in her eyes. Had he meant to aim it so? Afraid, so afraid—she had left Paolo downstairs, as requested, but, of course, Paolo would not have helped her. He was an animal with a keen survival instinct. If he were here in this room, he would be holding her down for the cuts. She shut her eyes for a brief eternal second and saw herself bleeding, substituted the man in her place, held a knife under his arm where the scars would be nearly invisible.

  “How many years?” the man asked. Her eyes flew open.

  “Sir?”

  “How many years have you worked for us?”

  “Seven, sir.”

  “You run a good business,” the man said. He studied the letter opener, the sharp edges. She knew how it would feel to have that edge drawn along her skin. In her mind she ground a sharp metal heel in his soft skin. He opened his mouth to scream, and the stub of his tongue sprayed blood.

  “Thank you, sir,” she managed to reply. His smile flashed and was gone, like light from the knife’s edge.

  “I’ll take your advice, Ming, for now. But if she makes trouble for me, you’ll wish you’d never opened your mouth. Understand?”

  The cutting of his tongue was not enough. She stuffed a rubber ball in his mouth and fastened it in place with a strap, picked out her favorite lash. Perhaps, for the occasion, she’d add razor blades. His dark eyes, so wide with terror. Perhaps now the cigarette. Perhaps now—

  “I understand perfectly.”

  She stood up when he did, bowed low in the Oriental fashion she knew he would expect. He was a small man, really, hardly taller than she, with neat hands and small fingers.

  She did not know his name, and had never wanted to.

  Her fantasy of revenge was sweet enough to drown her fear. She even had the courage to smile at him, and saw he was surprised.

  “Perhaps,” she said, forcing her voice low in her throat where it purred and vibrated, “you would allow me to do you some service. It would be my pleasure.”

  Close, so close; she saw it in his eyes. He was aroused and ready to agree.

  “A fine offer,” he said, and stood aside as he opened the door. “I expect you’d make an exquisite servant.”

  Her fear returned with the force of a tidal wave, slamming aside her fantasies in favor of red memories, old terrors. She hoped her smile remained enigmatic, and bowed.

  As she walked slowly away down the cool paneled hallway, she thought, no master. Never again. Not at any price.

  If Velvet was the price of retaining her freedom, she would flay the stupid girl and present the man her skin.

  Chapter Twelve

  Velvet

  Velvet stared into the mirror and probed a blue green bruise on her cheek, winced when pain spread like waves in a waterbed. The bruise was bad—half her face—but her eye looked worse. She was starring in a movie. Blood Eyes of the Zombie Hooker. A straight-to-video release.

  Outside the bathroom, she heard Robby and Jim talking, a smear of quiet hissing voices. He was trying to talk her out of something. Jesus, she’d only been around a couple of times, and she already knew that was the way those two went. Boring as shit.

  She probed her teeth with her tongue, found one a little loose, and pushed on it with her finger. She didn’t think it would come out, but this seemed like a good time to take advantage of Ming’s free dentist. One good shot of novacaine and she’d never feel anything anyway—better to do it when her face was already busted up. More efficient.

  Robby had left her an ice pack. She picked up the plastic baggie and weighed it in her palm. The ice cubes slid greasily from one side to the other.

  “Now, this will sting a little,” she told her reflection, and put the ice pack on her eye. The shock almost made her pass out, and she braced herself with white knuckles on the counter. “Oh, shit, son-ofabitch—oh, man, I broke a nail.”

  Nope, not just one—she spread her scraped fingers wide and counted three, no four, that were trashed beyond repair. The pain from her face retreated under pressure of this new disaster. She’d just paid Mary Ellen Davis fifty goddamn dollars for a manicure, with the special polish, and now—

  Now—

  She met her own eyes in the mirror and what she saw there scared the shit out of her—just another pathetic stupid hooker with glitter nails and neon bruises and wounded eyes. Wounded eyes.

  Same old shit, Velvet.

  She sat down on the toilet and tried to let the tears come, but instead of tears there was only pain, and under the pain an ache that went way down to her bones. Pathetic. Totally pathetic. What was she so proud of? That she’d taken her beating like a pro? That she’d proved to herself, one more time, that she was exactly what everybody thought she was? Who the fuck did that jerk think he was, anyway? Beating on her like that? She’d show him something—stomp on his balls, snap his kneecaps, watch him piss his Armani suit and scream—

  The tears came suddenly and hard, spilling down her cheeks, warm under the ice pack.

  Somebody knocked on the door—a polite knock, respectful. Velvet sat up and wiped at her face with a torn sleeve, cleared her throat, and yelled, “Yeah, what?”

  Robby eased the door open a couple of inches and looked inside.

  “Are you ready to go?”

  “Go where?”

  After a moment of what looked like second thought, Robby said, “My apartment. You can stay there until tomorrow.”

  “No shit?” Velvet gave her a narrow look, or as narrow as she could with one eye swelled shut. “I ain’t working, you know.”

  “What?”

  “No freebies.”

  Robby’s face went stiff.

  “That’s not what I meant,” she sputtered. Velvet shrugged. “It’s not!”

  “Hey, whatever. I’m just laying out the house rules.”

  “Well, so am I.” Robby glared at her for another beat and said, “Are you ready?”

  Well, at worst the suit would have a prissy little house with plastic carpet runners and cellophane on the lampshades. A museum house. The bathroom floor would be cleaner than most people’s plates. Who says you can’t go home again? Maybe Robby would have those stupid collectible salt and pepper shakers Mom loved so much.

  “Sounds yummy,” Velvet lied, and followed her out to the living room. The guy with the hair—Jim, that was his name—Jim glared at her. Another thief who thought he was better than she was. Jesus, the world was just full of assholes. She paused long enough to bat her eyelids at him, even though it hurt like poking a needle up her nose. “Bye, sweetie. Sorry I can’t stick around. Maybe later.”

  He looked like he wanted to slap the shit out of somebody, and couldn’t decide between the two of them. He flopped down on the couch, flicked the remote control on his big-screen TV. Basketball. Robby moved around the room picking up things and jamming them in her purse—a hairbrush, a makeup bag, a wallet. She yanked open the door and glared at Velvet.

  “Come on,” she barked. Velvet readjusted the ice pack on her face, checked her balance on her high heels, and followed.

  Once the door was shut behind them, she heard Robby take a deep painful breath in the dark.

  “He ain’t worth it,” Velvet said helpfully.

  “How the hell would you know?”

  “Well, shit, none of them are,” she shrugged. Robby took her arm and led her across the warehouse, out to the dark deserted street. Nothing moving, not even a wino, just empty yellow pools of streetlights and cold, cold wind. Live music drifted on the air from someplace toward Dallas Alley—a free concert, probably. Velvet liked the Alley—a fun place to work, lots of drunk tourists looking for a little local adventure. She trolled there in between Ming’s jobs, sometimes. There was a barbecue place on the corner, closed up tight but breathing sharp tasty mesquite smoke out of its chimney. Her stomach growled.

  “Where we going?” Velvet asked as Robby set out down the sidewalk, walking much too fast. Velvet’s ribs protested under the sudden impacts, and her face felt like one big blood clot. Thank god for the wind chill. She couldn’t have stood it if it had been hot. “Hell—hey—would you slow down? How far is it? Don’t you have a car?”

  Robby, lit gold by the streetlamp they were passing under, shook dark hair out of her eyes and sighed. “No car. Six blocks west, two north.”

  Velvet stopped dead in her tracks, reached down, and stripped off her shoes. She clutched them in one hand and shivered as her feet absorbed the shock of cold pavement.

  “These,” she said to Robby’s questioning look, “are not walking shoes. Get it?”

  Robby rolled her eyes, but she slowed down a little. Velvet concentrated on watching the pavement for bits of broken glass or sharp rocks; whispers of cheering and tatters of guitar riffs blew by. Velvet’s stomach growled again.

  She wondered how Robby felt about Italian food.

  “So what really happened?” she asked. Robby’s eyes flashed to her, then away, searching alleys and doorways for surprises. She kept her hands in her coat pockets; for the first time Velvet wondered if she was carrying. She had that paranoid look.

  “When?”

  “When you found the guy who burned up. What happened?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, god, don’t lie. You’re a pissy liar. What’d you do, go inside?”

  Silence. Robby hunched her shoulders and stared down the street. Velvet avoided a spray of broken glass on the sidewalk and did a jig to catch up.

  “Yeah,” Robby said. “I went in.”

  “And?”

  Robby’s jaw had tightened. The soft brown eyes had a hard glittering look to them.

  “He was still alive,” she said. “I heard his breath bubbling. He was bleeding from his mouth and nose, bubbling blood.”

  “Jesus.” Velvet watched her face. “What’d you do?”

  “Nothing,” Robby said. She kicked a sharp-edged piece of metal out of Velvet’s way; it shot off into the darkness and whined off a curb. “I took his money and I left. I left him to die.”

  A car passed them, stirring papers like batwings in the gutter, and left behind an echo of laughter like wind chimes. Velvet wrapped her satin coat closer and looked down at her feet, white as marble in the cold.

  “Burt could have been alive,” she said. The truth felt like a chunk of broken glass in her throat. “I didn’t check. I ran out on him.”

  At the next intersection, a yellow DART bus farted black smoke as it passed. Velvet shifted from one numb foot to the other. She stared straight ahead, aware that Robby was looking at her, not wanting to look back.

  “You think they knew we left them to die?” Velvet asked at last. Even though Robby was a shitty liar, she wanted her to lie. Robby didn’t.

  “Yes,” Robby said. “Yes, they knew.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Martin

  Martin Grady hurried down a concrete-floored hallway toward what was politely referred to as his office. Unlike his colleagues from the more Northern states, he’d ended up with a coat closet down here in what he’d heard somebody refer to as the engine room of the Titanic. Which made him, he supposed, the stupid schmuck going down with the ship.

  It was two in the morning, and deserted office buildings got his goat, always had. He’d signed in upstairs with the crisp-pressed Marine guard, but supposing he got eaten by the Phantom of the Bureaucracy, would they notice? Not unless it involved cleaning up.

  Something clattered in the distance. He froze and listened, but all he heard was his own accelerated breathing. His breath was smoky in the freezing air, which reminded him he hadn’t had a cigarette since dinner. Thinking of cigarettes reminded him of Adrian Carling, the she-beast of Washington; he wondered where her offices were. Upstairs, of course, somewhere with two-inch pile carpeting and imported coffee served in thin china cups.

  He counted plain gunmetal gray doors. Six, eight, ten, twelve. At sixteen he stopped and fumbled for his keyring.

  Christ, it was quiet. Should have brought a radio, that would help. Something to break the silence. He’d buy one tomorrow, maybe a Walkman. No, he couldn’t hear people coming with headphones on.

  “Mr. Grady?”

  He spun around, keys clutched like a weapon in his fist, and saw Adrian Carling standing only about ten feet away. She was shorter than he’d remembered, maybe five-foot-five. He couldn’t tell what she was wearing under the calf-length dark-red coat, except that it must have been a skirt because the calves had hose and the feet had medium-heeled pumps.

  “Ms. Carling,” he remembered to say. “Surprise.”

  “I think that was my line.” She came a few steps closer, and the coat gaped open, showing him a dark brown suit, a cream-colored blouse. “Working late, aren’t you?”

  “No, I just thought I’d come in and redecorate, maybe spill a little water in the hall and play ice hockey.”

  “Glad you’re keeping your sense of humor.” He didn’t like the hint of pity in her voice, or the sad smile. “You must have enemies on the Hill.”

  “You don’t?”

  “Mine are more subtle. So, are you going inside, or are we waiting for the faceoff?”

  He remembered the keys in his hand and used them. The door swung open on an office as dreary as the rest of the hall, gray walls, a battered Vietnam-era desk, a chair that leaned back enough that it might have been second-hand from a dentist. The corkboard on the wall was more holes than cork, but Grady had managed to pin up a photo—just one. It looked lonely and defiant.

  Carling, of course, went over to look at it. She raised her eyebrows.

  “Your daughter?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Sally.” He waited for the inevitable comments, the sympathy, but Carling just nodded.

  “I assume there’s a wife?”

  Grady sat down in the chair, which squeaked like bed-springs, and fought the gravitational urge to tip over.

  “Was,” he said shortly. “What’s on your mind, Ms. Carling?”

  She continued to stare at Sally’s photo, her eyes bright and sharp.