“Sure. Two different payoffs—my Da handled most of them, of course, but I saw it. The IRA bureaucrats took a cut—not the special wings, those bastards would have killed us if they’d caught us—and, of course, the Brits. They wanted to make a little money and make it home alive.” She drew back. His face looked seamed and old, the lines deep as knife cuts. “I’ll split the damage with you.”

“No. Kelly will.”

“Ouch. You sure that’s wise?”

Jim shrugged. They didn’t call him Psycho Jim just because of his costuming. She supposed she’d have to assume he knew what he was doing.

Somebody knocked on the door, timidly. Robby pushed away from Jim, and they both turned to face the door.

“Expecting somebody?”

“I didn’t order a pizza.”

“Damn.” She traded a look with him. “Where’s the gun?”

“We don’t need the gun.”

“Don’t be an idiot, of course we need—”

Jim went over and opened the door a crack. For a second he just stared, then swung it wide.

“Well,” he said. “Look who’s here. Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm.”

The hooker, overbalanced, had to brace herself with one hand on his chest, and gave him a Hollywood smile that was too bright to be real. Her glitter nail polish was a shade hicks put on speedboats. Robby looked at her in disbelief and horror, grabbed her by the elbow, and dragged her inside, slamming the door behind her with unnecessary force. The hooker had cleaned up everything except the hard set of her mouth and the smart-ass eyes. She was wearing a pair of blue jeans that had three-inch slits of white lace running from hip to ankle along the sides, and were tight enough to be body paint. Luckily, her electric blue coat covered up whatever she wore on top. The four-inch fuck-me shoes looked ludicrously uncomfortable.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Robby demanded, and resisted the urge to shake her. In fact, she let go of her arm and stepped back, to remove the temptation. Jim, still blank-faced, watched.

“Well, shit, don’t make me feel at home or anything. Hey. Robby.” The hooker gave her a lower-wattage version of the Hollywood smile. She held out a paper sack, folded over at the top. “Brought your clothes back.”

“Are you crazy? Did Sol see you?”

“The fashion victim? Nah. I stayed in the shadows. Hey, who’s he? Kind of a babe, ain’t he?”

Robby grabbed the sack out of her hands and looked inside. A neatly folded pair of blue jeans, a black shirt. She set it on the floor and looked up to see Velvet watching her with a narrow bitter smile.

“What, you think I was going to steal from you? Jeez.” Velvet rolled her eyes. “Anyway, thanks. For the clothes and stuff. It was—nice of you.”