“Naw, man! Naw, the bitch ain’t worth no thirty bucks—”

While somebody else:

“I’ll give you thirty-five. Sure, I’ll—”

Hogg hooked his thumb in his pocket. “Ain’t no such thing. There can’t be, Ray. Not in the place we live at. And if there was, that’d be the most abnormal thing there was.”

“Look,” Ray said, as he and Hogg passed. “I’m normal! And I ain’t crazy. Now you, Hogg, you’re funny but you’re a nice guy. Still, you shouldn’t be thinkin’ things like that, ’cause it just ain’t real.”

Bikers shouted and jeered, hooted and cackled, pressed to the bar and pounded one another’s shoulders. Guys were jumping up on the shoulders of guys in front to see.

From the crowd, Big Chico staggered out. Rat, behind him, both hands on Big Chico’s arms, followed, laughing: “Oh, man!” Rat shouted. “You see how Ape was doin’? Fuckin’ her right there on the goddamn counter!”

Big Chico’s laugh got louder, cutting under Rat’s shrill chitter. “Sure was fuckin’ her right there! And Hawk, up by her head, just givin’ it to her in the mouth like that!” Big Chico shook his head. Dark hair swung across his brass earring. “Ape and Hawk, they’re too much—both at the same time, right on the goddamn counter!” (One of Rat’s filthy-nailed claws fell off Big Chico’s shoulder; Big Chico stopped to scrub at his mouth with the heel of a tattooed hand.) “That’s gonna give the Monk somethin’ to think about nights!” Chico guffawed again, lurched on, pulling from Rat’s other hand, the tip of his boot-sheath swiping the floor.

Rat staggered after him.

They went in the same direction as Hogg and the bartender.

I watched them.

None of them had seen me.

I looked up at Denny.

He was finishing a swallow from his beer. As the neck came from his lips, I saw beer run down his chin. His mouth, wet, hung half open. Blue light slid on his overlapping teeth. He looked more stoned than the wop’s old lady had. The cool bottle went back to his groin; he turned it a little, back and forth. Once, he caught his breath.

I moved my shoulders against the wall, pressed my lips together, ran my tongue-tip along the crease.

Denny moved his sneakers—or, rather, moved his feet around inside them. His right heel was off the ground.

I tried to figure out which side of the bottle his dick was hanging on. His pants were pretty baggy. The blood—in two long streaks and a short one—had dried black-brown.

I touched the cloth of his pants leg.

He didn’t look.