"Nice. You go down on your mother with that mouth?"

Ashley visibly tenses. His grin doesn't fade, but he damn sure isn't happy.

"Don't talk about my mother," he says. He continues: "The most recent appears to have choked on his own tongue after a particularly severe epileptic fit. Again, could've been murder, but the guy had a history of epilepsy, right? The one from Raleigh, the old man, what was his name? Benson. Craig Benson. I'm actually not sure how he died. Company bigwig, had lots of security and cops and the like; I couldn't get close. But you did. Was he just old?"

Miriam pushes aside her plate. She's no longer hungry.

"His dick killed him," she says.

"His dick."

"His erection, more specifically."

"You banged CEO Grandpa?"

"Jesus, no. I did flash him a tit, though. He was so pumped fill of dick pills – and not prescribed stuff, but shit from, like, some village in China – that it killed him. My chest isn't exactly impressive, but I guess it's enough to kill an old man."

"So him you did kill."

"Bull."

"Gun or tit, you were the one firing the weapon."

She waves him off. "Whatever."

The waitress comes by – skinny up top, but a big round bottom that Miriam can't help but think of as "birthing hips"– and asks Ashley what he wants. He orders coffee.

"So, you've been following me for two months now?"

He tells her just about, yeah.

"How? How'd you find me?"

The waitress comes, pours him a coffee, tops off Miriam's, too. "The bike courier. I saw you picking the corpse's pockets. I had the same idea."

"You just happened to be there?"

"Nah. I'd been working the courier for a week. He was dirty. Delivering packages for all kinds of shady types. I was running a scheme, trying to convince him that he and I could take one of those packages and offer it to a higher bidder, but really, I was just going to take the package and run." He sips noisily at his coffee. "Obviously, you came and fucked that up."

"You're a con-man, then."

"I prefer con-artist."

"I'm a dancer, not a stripper. Keep saying it, see if it magically becomes true." She feels a headache from the Bourbon of Doom stretching its legs in the back of her skull, like it needs to get up and roam around. She needs a smoke. Or a drink. Or a bullet to the temple. "Let's cut to the chase. You see what you see, and you follow me for two months. Why?"

"Initially, it was professional curiosity. I figure, hey, check it out – another con-artist, just like me. Maybe I can learn a thing or two, and maybe I'll pull something over on her, or maybe she'll pull something over on me. Either way would've been interesting."

"I'm not a con-artist."

"Maybe you are, maybe you aren't. Maybe this whole thing is a ruse, and maybe you're conning me right now. The diary, the datebook, the hair dye. Maybe you knew about the game I was trying to run on the courier, and maybe you thought I was the bigger fish." He shakes his head, waggles a finger. "But I don't think so. Because things don't add up. The courier had a package. You didn't take it. You only emptied his wallet. In fact, that seems to be all you do. You empty their wallets, maybe take a few other items – like the kid's scarf, or the old man's watch."