She smiled, a seething lazy smile, and under cover of the table put her foot up and rubbed the toe of her shoe along the inside of his thigh, right up to the crotch. She gave him a slow gentle pressure, just enough, and when she was sure she had his attention, she flicked her toe up. The sharp point of her four-inch stiletto heel dug hard into his balls.

“You know,” she said, “come to think of it, there may be a few things I could do to you for a couple hundred. Want me to give you a free sample?”

Lenny’s face turned the color of old paper. The plastic bench seat made popping sounds as he tried to press himself back through it. She wiggled her heel deeper and balanced her leg comfortably on the seat, ready to shove hard.

“You’re going to be a good boy, aren’t you, Lenny? I would hate to think you were trying to take advantage of me. Reach in your pocket and take the money out and put it on the table. Now.”

He licked his pale lips and nodded.

“Um, could you—you know—move your foot first?”

“Nope, sorry, not possible.”

He gingerly eased one hip up off the bench and dug in his pocket, until she heard the sound of crackling paper. He slid an envelope over the edge of the table toward her. She counted it slowly; when she felt Lenny getting restless, she jabbed him a little, and he settled down.

“I don’t like it when assholes like you try to shake me down, Lenny. Now we’re even.”

“Well, not quite.” His voice wasn’t steady, but he was making a good run at it, and she eased the pressure in his crotch a little. Relief spilled over his face like water. “Uh, look, what you gave me is good, sure, but I need more. I need—something great. Something I can run with.”

“Even if I have to make it up?” she asked, and drained the last of her Ginseng Special, a mouthful of sweat and bubbles. He attempted a grin.

“Well, you know, my editor—I really need the story. I’m desperate.”

“Okay.” She took her foot completely out of his target area and crossed her legs. He crossed his. She leaned forward.

So did he.

“I think,” she said, and widened her eyes, “I know who killed him.”

Chapter Eight

Velvet

She felt like an alien from outer space at the library. People stared at her with that weird what-the-fuck-is-she-doing-here look, even the shuffling drunks with their paper bags, and the librarians—Jesus, you’d think she’d come in with a spinning chainsaw and a severed head. The cops—there were so many on duty at the doors you would have thought the fucking President was in the Periodicals—eyed her like they were measuring her for mug shots.