“Not exactly.” The eyes widened. They were a very vivid blue, an unusual shade, and I wondered if she were wearing contact lenses. The soft lenses sometimes do curious things to eye color, altering some shades, intensifying others.

“I don’t have a license,” I explained. “When I decided I didn’t want to carry a badge anymore I didn’t figure I wanted to carry a license, either.” Or fill out forms or keep records or check in with the tax collector. “Anything I do is very unofficial.”

“But it’s what you do? It’s how you make your living?”

“That’s right.”

“What do you call it? What you do.”

You could call it hustling a buck, except that I don’t hustle a whole lot. The work finds me. I turn down more than I handle, and the jobs I accept are ones I can’t think of a way to turn down. Right now I was wondering what this woman wanted from me, and what excuse I’d find to say no.

“I don’t know what to call it,” I told her. “You could say that I do favors for friends.”

Her face lit up. She’d been doing a lot of smiling ever since she walked in the door but this was the first smile that got as far as her eyes. “Well, hell, that’s perfect,” she said. “I could use a favor. As far as that goes, I could use a friend.”

“What’s the problem?”

She bought some thinking time by lighting another cigarette, then lowered her eyes to watch her hands as she centered the lighter on top of the pack. Her nails were well manicured, long but not awkward, lacquered the color of tawny port. She wore a gold ring set with a large square-cut green stone on the third finger of her left hand. She said, “You know what I do. Same as Elaine.”

“So I gathered.”

“I’m a hooker.”

I nodded. She straightened in her seat, squared her shoulders, adjusted the fur jacket, opened the clasp at her throat. I caught a trace of her perfume. I’d smelled that spicy scent before but couldn’t recall the occasion. I picked up my cup, finished my coffee.

“I want out.”

“Of the life?”

She nodded. “I’ve been doing this for four years. I came here four years ago in July. August, September, October, November. Four years and four months. I’m twenty-three years old. That’s young, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“It doesn’t feel so young.” She adjusted the jacket again, refastened the clasp. Light glinted off her ring. “When I got off the bus four years ago I had a suitcase in one hand and a denim jacket over my arm. Now I’ve got this. It’s ranch mink.”

“It’s very becoming.”