“Good,” the Wire said. “She can think whatever she wants to think as long as she keeps that little flapper available.”

“Wire,” I said, “you got a new mule?”

“Yeah. A real bimbo.”

“Who?”

“Debbie Sylvia.”

“She any good?”

“Not bad. On a scale of one to ten I’d put her about one bra size shy of a nine.”

I waited for Mousy to set him straight with his advice that “tits are for kids,” but he didn’t.

“You should see this chick’s nipples,” the Wire said. “Exactly where they should be.”

“Right on the end of her tits?” I said, taking another sip of beer.

“You know what I mean,” he said. “Up high, real firm.”

“How long you been seeing her?”

“About two weeks but I did her about a month before that.”

DeCenz laughed.

“I dragged her out of January’s one night and hosed her right out in the parking lot,” the Wire said. “Then I’m in there a couple of weeks ago and this fucking incredible babe comes up to me and goes, ‘You almost gave me whiplash, buddy,’ and I looked at her like I never seen her before, I was so cocked when I did her, so I asked her out.”

“That’s fucking precious,” I said.

“Yeah. The thing what’s fucked up is I didn’t even remember her name and she loved my ass.”

“This babe tight?” DeCenz asked.

“Fuck, yeah,” the Wire said. “I’m talking shoehorn city.”

DeCenz smiled. “Tell him how often you bang her.”

“A lot,” the Wire said. “And I mean we do everything: 69, 42, 37, hershey highway, you name it. You know, I asked her to enter into a relationship. I told her, ‘None of this once-a-week-or-no-blow-job shit.’ I go, ‘I want a girl who’s gonna swallow my dick, balls, and asshole at the same time.’”

“Beautiful,” I said. “All three at once.”

Tommy the Wire nodded.

“Show Dunph what she gave you on your tongue,” DeCenz said, and my heart sank.

The Wire showed DeCenz his middle finger.

“Come on,” DeCenz said.

“Fuck off. I told you before it’s just a canker, and, anyway, I didn’t get it from Debbie. I got it from that Cranston chick.”

“A canker, huh. Dunph, do you get cankers that last for three weeks?”

“Wire,” I said, “why’d you let me drink out of your glass if your mouth is fucked up?”

“’Cause booze kills things. And anyway, it ain’t catchy. If it was, then Debbie’d have it all over her ass.”

I wiped my tongue with a napkin.

“Go ahead,” DeCenz said, “show him it, pimplebreath. This is the ’70s, everyone gets social diseases.”

“What is it you got?” I asked.

“Asshole thinks I got the drip because I hosed some bushpig from Cranston and my tongue got fucked up.”

“How fucked up?”