“So—let’s say, just for grins, I been talking to a guy who says he’s Lenny Bradshaw. Only he isn’t you. He’s been giving me money for information.”

“Money?” Bradshaw’s laugh sounded more like springs squeaking. “Baby, you got a guy paying you to talk, I’d hang on to that bad boy, ’cause it damn sure ain’t me, and anyways, I don’t pay for information. I’m a journalist. People give it to me.”

“Yeah, sure. Listen, this guy, he’s been pretending to be you. Isn’t that like, against the law or something? ’Cause, you know, I told him a lot of stuff.” She hesitated. “Personal stuff.”

“Like what?”

Here she was, scared to go home, stranded at a snot-laced pay phone in the freezing wind wearing L.L. Bean shit, for god’s sake, shacked up in a house that Ringling Brothers decorated. Why worry about one more asshole?

“Like, I’m the one who was in the hotel room with Burt Marshall when he burned up.”

The silence seemed to go on forever. Papers shuffled, or static hissed, she wasn’t sure which. Finally, he said, “Burt who?”

“Come on, you did a big story about it, I read it. Guy burned up in a hotel. You were offering a reward. I was there. I saw it.” She sucked in a deep breath. “That isn’t all, not by a long shot. I saw plenty. I think it was murder, and I think I know who did it.”

“Yeah, I remember this guy. That was last week, fer crissake. But, uh, yeah, there’s a reward. If you’ve got good info. What’s your name, honey?”

“Velvet. Velvet—uh—look, don’t print my name, okay? Just call me an unnamed source or something. Look, I need the money. I need to get out of town, like, fast. Get it?”

“Got it. Okay, Velvet, you want to come down here?”

“Here where?”

He gave her an address out in the ’burbs, a long cold bus ride. She wrote it on the back of her hand next to the smudged telephone number and chewed her lip some more, winced when a cut opened and she tasted blood.

“Yeah, okay, it’ll take a while. Like, a couple hours. Okay?”

“I ain’t going anywhere. Come on down.” Bradshaw sounded friendlier now, like a tamed bear. “Got a pot of coffee with your name on it.”

“Long as, you got a check with my name on it.”

“We’ll discuss it.” He hung up without any good-byes, which was fine; she felt warm and fuzzy enough. Whoever Mr. Dimple was, fuck him. If he came back, she’d get some more cash out of him, even if she had to do him a favor or two.