Neither of us spoke for half a dozen blocks. Then he said, “You wanted to talk to me. It doesn’t have anything to do with Kid Bascomb, does it?”

“No.”

“I didn’t really think so. What does it have to do with?”

“Kim Dakkinen.”

His eyes were on the road and I couldn’t see any change in his expression. He said, “Oh? What about her?”

“She wants out.”

“Out? Out of what?”

“The life,” I said. “The relationship she has with you. She wants you to agree to ... break things off.”

We stopped for a light. He didn’t say anything. The light changed and we went another block or two and he said, “What’s she to you?”

“A friend.”

“What does that mean? You’re sleeping with her? You want to marry her? Friend’s a big word, it covers a lot of ground.”

“This time it’s a small word. She’s a friend, she asked me to do her a favor.”

“By talking to me.”

“That’s right.”

“Why couldn’t she talk to me herself? I see her frequently, you know. She wouldn’t have had to run around the city asking after me. Why, I saw her just last night.”

“I know.”

“Do you? Why didn’t she say anything when she saw me?”

“She’s afraid.”

“Afraid of me?”

“Afraid you might not want her to leave.”

“And so I might beat her? Disfigure her? Stub out cigarettes on her breasts?”

“Something like that.”

He fell silent again. The car’s ride was hypnotically smooth. He said, “She can go.”

“Just like that?”

“How else? I’m not a white slaver, you know.” His tone put an ironic stress on the term. “My women stay with me out of their own will, such will as they possess. They’re under no duress. You know Nietzsche? ‘Women are like dogs, the more you beat them the more they love you.’ But I don’t beat them, Scudder. It never seems to be necessary. How does Kim come to have you for a friend?”

“We have an acquaintance in common.”

He glanced at me. “You were a policeman. A detective, I believe. You left the force several years ago. You killed a child and resigned out of guilt.”