Drunk and out all night, the bikers woke us up about four in the morning. One was already on his knees at the mattress, trying to eat out Maria’s pussy—while she kept trying to sit up and fold her skirt—it was torn now—saying, “Just a minute.… Come on; just a minute, huh?” till one guy, with his cock out, came around to squat in front of her head.

A third—Rat—leaned, one arm up on the wall and one arm down on his stomach, puking. It came out mostly wine and pizza; you could tell, where it splattered the brick or splashed the floor.

Pedro sat on the bottom step, pushing quarters with his thumb off one palm to clink them into the other.

Where I lay, watching, Hawk nudged my shoulder with his boot.

Rolling on my back, eyes still sticky with sleep, I looked up.

Two thick fingers were inside Hawk’s fly, with two others and his thumb outside, all working. In his other hand, tilted to his mouth, was a can of beer. His wet neck pulsed. The black hair was flattened down his sweaty chest. He was twenty-five or so. A big crease swallowed his navel, like a hairy grin, the corners hidden behind his denim vest. He flung the beer can against the wall and dropped his thick arm. The threads where the sleeves had been ripped off were a gray fringe on the blue-black cloth up near the top of his shoulder; further down, they darkened into a moon of sweat that had set on each flank. A blurry dragon above his wrist and a jailhouse swastika on his biceps, hand and forearm were cabled in veins. He grinned at me through black stubble. Red ringed his eyes, and the place his wet lashes set looked inflamed. “Hope you were dreamin’ ’bout some big dick in your face, boy.”

I sat up.

Rat finished being sick and came over, wiping stuff off his chin with two fingers. Scrawny, redheaded, he scratched the nest of acne on his chest with black-rimmed nails. “Will you look at that sleepy fucker, there!”

Big Chico laughed. The knife sheath strapped to his boot was worn off where the tip scraped the floor. His gold earring flashed.

Hawk kneaded himself. The denim had faded where his meat filled his jeans crotch. “He was just lying there, playin’ with himself in his sleep,” while two more ’cycles roared up outside. Ape Townley, who was the president, followed by his kid brother, called the Monk, swaggered down the cellar steps, howling. But they were interested in Maria.

And Hawk was vice president, anyway.

Someone gave Pedro a can of beer. He took a long swallow, then, wiping his mouth on his wrist, looked at his sister and the guy who was working on her.

“Hey, man!” the Monk said. “Here you go! Here’s my quarter! Right here, go on, take it!”

Rat squatted beside me. “What was you dreaming about, cocksucker?”

“Some dick bigger’n yours, I bet.” Hawk laughed, swaying from one scuffed boot to the other. The outside of the heels were worn to the soles.