She used the patented Ming low-octave purr in the last of it, saw it register in his eyes. The pencil stopped tapping.

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat, “Yeah, I can see that. Tell you what, I got five hundred bucks that says—”

“Let me see it.”

He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a ragged cigar box. He flashed it open, showing an equally ragged stack of bills.

“Count it.”

Bradshaw’s eyes were a washed-out brown, squinty and tired.

“Count it,” she said again, very quietly. “Or I walk right out the door.”

“Cocky bitch,” he muttered, and slammed the lid back on the box. He laid out twenties, old and used, in stacks of five. At five stacks, he’d emptied the box. “Satisfied?”

“I believe in total quality management. I’m never satisfied.” She grinned when his eyes started to narrow more. “Forget it. We’re cool.”

When she reached out for the money, his hand came down over hers, hot as summer sweat.

“Uh-uh. Not until I’ve heard what I want to hear.”

Before she was done, he’d let her take the five hundred, fold it into neat halves, and stick it in her socks. After that, he took out a half-full bottle of Chivas Regal and poured two paper cups.

When that was empty, he found a full bottle.

“’Slate,” Bradshaw mumbled. He tried to pick up his paper cup, but turned it over. Whisky peed off the edge of his desk onto his pants. “Shit. Shit. See that? Shit.”

For some reason, it was ungodly funny. Velvet laughed until the room started spinning, then put her head down on the desk until it stopped. From time to time, giggles bubbled up and dribbled out of her mouth, gooey with Chivas.

“Not the first time,” she said. “Not the firsht time shomebody died with me. Y’know?”

“Yeah?” He snorted wetly and searched for a handkerchief. “Damn. Damn.”

“My sister.”

He started laughing, a high thin laugh like a jackass. She wished she was close enough to slap him; it seemed like way too much effort to go around the desk to do it. She settled for throwing the rest of her drink on him, then reached for the bottle and poured. Most of it missed the cup.

“Don’t fuckin’ laugh, you asshole. Ash-hole. Good kid. She was … you know … young.”

“Lemme guess.” Bradshaw’s laugh sawed at her again. “Drunk driving.”

“No.” She tried to sit up straight, but the room took a funny lurch. “Drunk, not driving. Blow jobs.”

“Huh?”

“I was blowing this guy—y’know—in the backsheat. Seat. I dinnit know she wanned to go home. She started walking an—an—thish other guy he—” All of a sudden she was crying, bawling, shaking all over. “Amy—”