They settled for five hundred, two-fifty up front. She counted the bills and stuffed them in her purse. He took out a pad of paper and a pen and waited expectantly.

And suddenly she had no idea what to say. She looked around at the rice-paper menus glued on the walls, the faded paper dragons fluttering overhead. What did he want to hear? Always give the customer what they want, that was Ming’s first rule. Ming’s second rule was, always charge more than they intend to pay.

“First of all, you have to understand, I don’t normally do this kind of thing. I’m new at it.” Velvet tapped long fingernails nervously on the table. The fallen-angel thing was always good with prep-school guys—that and cheerleader outfits. “Used to be a model, you know? But then I got too old. This date thing, this is pretty new to me.”

“You like it?” Bradshaw asked. She glanced up at him. His face was innocent and chubby-cheeked. “Just asking.”

“I like it okay. Most guys are nice enough.”

“How about Burt Marshall? Was he nice enough?”

She fought the urge to look away, because she just knew that if she did, she’d see Burt out of the corner of her eye, burnt red and black like Fong’s barbecued pork ribs. Oughta tell him he beat me, she thought. Oughta tell him about bruises and broken bones. Good copy. But she couldn’t lie like that, not for this little stack of bills.

“He was nice,” she said. “Nothing special. Never done him before, but yeah, he seemed pretty nice.”

“He has a wife and three kids out in Lakewood, did you know that?”

Time to look away, now. The street was safe, cars a bright smear of speed, a few pedestrians bundled in coats and scarves. Behind her, on the other side of the counter, Fong cursed his cook, a singsong wave of sound. The cook sang harmony.

She smelled something burning and closed her eyes, felt for her abandoned Ginseng Special and sipped half-heartedly. It tasted like old sweaty socks.

“Sex scandals make good copy. Did you have sex with him?”

“No.” A glance at his face warned her it was the wrong answer. “Well, yeah, sure. Took my clothes off. I was sucking his dick when it happened. Hey, can you print that? Sucking his dick?”

He looked uncomfortable, tapped his pen on the pad.

“We can call it engaging in oral sex.”

Velvet waited for him to break a grin, but he looked serious.

“So I was engaging in oral sex with the guy when he started burning. Poof.”

“Where did it start?” Lenny Bradshaw was studying her carefully, maybe wondering why her hair wasn’t burned off. She hadn’t thought of that. Wig. Yeah, she’d tell him she was wearing a wig, and the wig got burned.