“But I thought it was Gloria,” Vinnie continued, “like she was alive. I could’ve swore it. So I dozed off again and I thought, Well, Gloria’s out there cleanin’ up the place, and she’s not dead or nothing any more. See what I mean, how it all fit in?”

There was an open bottle at his side. He took a drink from it. Before he had swallowed all of it, he started to laugh. This caused him to choke and he spat liquor on his shirt and trousers. Berry-berry slapped him hard on the back. When this seizure was over, Agricola went on laughing. He grabbed hold of Berry-berry’s hand and looked up into his face: “But when I woke up and seen you, buddy-boy, I knew where I was. I knew I was right back in the front room of a lousy whorehouse.”

This joke was followed by another drink, and a renewal of his convulsions. He got to his feet and went to the kitchen, where he began to repeat the story to the woman on the table. But she made no show of listening. Without even a glance in Agricola’s direction, the woman walked out of the kitchen and into the living room. She was a dark-eyed French-Canadian, plump and untidy, but not unattractive. Her toenails were painted red.

She approached Clinton, and tousled his hair, giving him a big-eyed look of approval. Then she took his hand and guided his arm around her waist.

“For this I get paid?” she said.

“Where’s your shoes?” Berry-berry said.

She held her foot straight forward and displayed freshly pedicured toes. “They’re still wet, doll. Listen, I asked you something. Is he mine?”

Berry-berry looked at Clinton. “You want her?”

“Not just now,” Clinton said, politely. He turned to the girl: “But thanks, anyway.”

“Well now,” she said, “don’t you lose that raincheck!”

“Okay,” Clinton said.

“Listen, mess,” Berry-berry said. “Do something about yourself, will you?”

“My name,” she said to Clinton, “is Dorothy.”

“You hear me?” Berry-berry said, eyeing her in an expressionless way that seemed to change her mood.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ll go get all pretty, okay?” She blew a kiss in Clinton’s direction and hurried into the bathroom.

Agricola came stumbling in from the kitchen, his big frame falling against the woodwork as he entered the room, a newly opened can of beer foaming over his hands. He was still laughing in his fierce and morbid way. “So I woke up—plunko—in the middle of a crummy whorehouse!”

“Why don’t you shut up, Vinnie?” Berry-berry said. And then, to Clinton, “Come on upstairs.”

He led the way through the kitchen, with its squalid array of empty beer cans and unwashed coffee cups, and up the back stairway. They had to walk single file up the stairs because half of each step was used as a shelf for empty soda bottles. At the top of the stairs was a tiny hallway, with one attic room on the right and another on the left. Berry-berry entered the room at the left, feeling his way into the darkness.