She rubbed her eyes and opened them to stare at the ceiling. Shadows from the window, leaves rustling like dollars in the dark.

“There’s nothing to be scared about, you know that. He’s a lowlife. Let him play his little role and strut around, and when he’s gone, we’ll still be here, working. What did he want? Was he complaining about the take again?”

“No,” she said. The apartment felt cold and lonely. She thought for the thousandth time that she needed a dog, something warm and bouncy to come home to. “No, he was bitching about Velvet.”

“Who?”

“The hooker.”

“Jesus Christ, that was fast. Anyway, it was my goddamn shower, I don’t know what he was upset about. You did get rid of her.”

“Sure I did.”

“Then there’s nothing to worry about. Nothing at all.”

She nodded, chewing the inside of her lip, and rolled over on her side, staring now at the television. The evening news was on, grainy footage of wars in countries she’d never heard of, shell-shocked faces, wailing women. No matter where it was, what they were wearing, it always looked like Dublin to her. She hitched back over on her back to avoid the memories.

“Velvet—the hooker—she saw somebody burn up, Jim. Just like Arnold.”

A long silence now, very long. She remembered the look of broken trust.

“I thought we agreed to forget it.”

“I tried. Look—Jim—”

“No, Robby, you look. Forget it. Sol’s an asshole, but he works for people who are bigger assholes. Stay quiet.”

She started to say I can’t do that, but closed her mouth on it. Instead, she said, “Okay.” In the corner of her eye, the news footage shifted to weather reports. Colder temperatures. Winter storm warnings.

“Want to come over?” Jim asked. “I’ll let you win a game of chess.”

She found herself smiling, which was odd, because she really didn’t feel like it. Acting again, even when she didn’t mean to.

“No. Think I’ll call it a night.”

“You know you’re welcome.” Just the slightest hint of apology in his voice. “Always.”

“I know,” she said, and after she’d hung up she stayed on the couch, staring at the moving shadows on the ceiling.

She hated being helpless, hated it worse than anything else in the world.

Chapter Seven

Velvet

Velvet spat a ropy string of vomit that had the taste of Scotch and bitter sleeping pills into the toilet, and remembered Paolo. She felt hot enough to burst into flames, but tired, so tired. Great ending to the Velvet Daniels movie of the week, she thought. Hooker chokes on her own vomit.

“Could be worse,” she said aloud; her voice sounded raw and thick, and she could almost taste it in her mouth, medicine bitter. “Least I made it through the night.”