“Look—you—” Robby said. Velvet broke her pretzel into tiny pretzel particles and mashed them with numb fingertips.

“I have a name, y’know. Velvet.” It sounded so good she said it a couple more times. “Velvet. Vel-vet.”

“Look, Velvet, why don’t I just leave you a twenty to get you going, and you can drink all you—”

“No! No, don’t leave, don’t—” Velvet felt tears start up again, and she grabbed at Robby’s hand, pinning her down. “I just—shit. Shit. Goddamn shit.”

Robby blinked. “Excuse me?”

Time did an alcoholic stretch, and suddenly Myra was back, delivering two glasses thick with something that looked like water; Velvet tipped one back fast. Not water. It burned the sticky spiderwebs out of the back of her throat.

“Don’t go,” she said again. Her head felt thick and light, like styrofoam. “Hey, don’t go. Don’t.”

Robby came up with a dry twenty-dollar bill and passed it to Myra, who popped her gum and swished away toward two guys in gray suits who had the IRS kicked-dog-turned-killer look. They were looking; hell, everybody was staring, every goddamn body.

“What the hell do you want?” Robby snapped. “I bought your damned drinks.”

Velvet inhaled the second glass of vodka and rubbed her numb cheeks; they felt slick and wet.

“Gotta tell you—he—see—there was this—Burt—and—goddamn—goddamn—shit goddamn you gotta—see I tried to help him, I tried but whoosh like a goddamn—goddamn match— burned. Burned.”

She made helpless circles with her hands, big whooshing motions.

She stopped because she realized Robby was staring at her. Staring right at her, no more little holier-than-you quickies. Her eyes were wide and dark.

“What did you say?” Robby asked. Velvet swallowed and tried to look her in the eye.

“Burned. He burned.” She added a flap of her hands. “Whoosh. Oopsh. Shorry.”

“You were there, and this man burned? Caught on fire?”

Velvet nodded dumbly, happy that she’d gotten the attention, just plain happy. She’d said it. She’d gotten it out, and now it was okay.

“’Nother drink?” she asked, shaking her glass at Robby. Robby kept staring, a closed expression on the square face, the cool eyes.

“Did he die?” she asked quietly. Velvet lost her grip on the glass, and it tumbled to the table and skittered nervously in circles.

“Died,” she said solemnly. “Yeah. Hope sho.”

She started crying again, because Burt had been so nice, so goddamn nice, and she hardly even realized Robby was getting up until another twenty hit the table and stuck to scattered drops of vodka.

It hit Velvet late, and hard, that the look in Robby’s eyes had been familiar.

Jesus God, she thought through the fog. She’s seen it, too. She’s seen it.