I opened the door.

I heard her bump a drawer shut. "Hey, Kinsey?"

I looked back at her. Her smirk was almost self-mocking, but not quite.

"Want to do a line of coke? My treat."

I left the room, closing the door quietly. I felt like slamming it, but what would be the point?

I went down to the living room. I was hungry and I needed a glass of wine. There were only five or six people left. Sufi sat next to Glen on one of the sofas. I didn't recognize anybody else. I crossed to the buffet table that had been set up on the far side of the room. The Chicano maid, Alicia, was rearranging a platter of shrimp, consolidating hors d'oeuvres so the plates wouldn't look all ratty and half eaten. God, there was a lot to this business of being rich. It had never occurred to me. I thought you just invited people over and turned 'em loose, but I could see now that entertaining requires all kinds of subtle monitoring.

I filled a plate and picked up a fresh glass of wine. I chose a seat close enough to the others so I wouldn't seem rude, but far enough away so I wouldn't have to talk to anyone. I have a shy streak that surfaces in situations like this. I'd rather have chatted with some hooker down on lower State Street than try to exchange pleasantries with this crew. What could we possibly have discussed? They were talking about long-term paper. I took a bite of salmon mousse and tried to keep an interested look on my face, like maybe I had a lot of long-term paper I was hoping to unload. Such a nuisance, that shit, isn't it?

I felt a light touch on my arm and glanced over to see Sufi Daniels easing into the chair next to mine.

"Glen tells me Bobby was very fond of you," she said.

"I hope so. I liked him."

Sufi stared at me. I kept eating because I couldn't think what else to say. She was wearing an odd outfit; a long black dress of some silky material with a matching jacket over it. I assumed it was meant to disguise her misshapen form with its slightly hunched back, but it made her look as if she were about to perform with some big philharmonic orchestra. Her hair was the same lank, pale mess it had been when I met her the first time and her makeup was inexpert. She couldn't have been more different from Glen Callahan. Her manner was faintly patronizing, like she was just on the verge of slipping me a couple of bucks for my services. I might have been short with her, but there was always the chance that she had Bobby's little red book.

"How do you know Glen?" I asked, taking a sip of wine. I set the glass down on the floor near my chair and forked up some cold shrimp in a spicy sauce. Sufis gaze flicked over to Glen and then back.