She felt the weight of the gun in her hand. An easy shot, if she’d had the guts, but, of course, she didn’t, and in a second he was gone into the street, door swinging shut behind him, booming.

She stuck the gun back in her pocket and ran toward the corner, toward the uneven moans, the whisper of skin on concrete. A pale face lifted toward her as she approached. The fast heave of Velvet’s breathing sounded like heartbeats.

Robby cautiously squatted down and touched her hand. Velvet’s fingers curled around hers. After what seemed like a long time, Velvet said, “Thanks.” Her word sounded misshapen and thick. Her nose was bleeding, black ribbons down pale skin. She dabbed at it with her coat sleeve.

“I’m sorry,” Robby said; it sounded awkward, horrible, stupid. She wanted to say I would have shot him to save you, I would have, but she knew it wasn’t really true, and the hooker wouldn’t believe it, anyway. “Do you want an ambulance?”

“For this? Fuck it. He’s a pussy.” Velvet’s nails bit and relaxed on her fingers. “Well, maybe a couple of bandaids.”

“I’ll take care of you,” Robby promised. Velvet coughed; it sounded wet.

“What, again?” she asked, and laughed.

Robby felt a tickle of relief and laughed, too, leaned forward and put her arm under Velvet’s shoulders. Velvet tried to get up and failed, kicked off her too-high shoes and succeeded. Robby grabbed the shoes and stuck them in her coat pocket.

“Don’t know why you wear the damned things,” she murmured, and felt the pulse of Velvet’s laugh through her shoulders.

“Basketball.”

Jim heard them coming and swung the door open before she could knock. Robby stopped and squinted in the sudden light. She couldn’t see his face in the glare, only a silhouette like Sol’s. She paused and waited. The silence stretched. She thought he might close the door, but then he turned and stepped back. She barely heard his low rough voice say, “I’m not that scared, Robby.”

Chapter Eleven

Ming

Ming had only been in the office twice—once, in the beginning, to let her know the risks of failure, and now. She had forgotten how dizzingly high it was, views of mist-gray clouds and a dim maze of streets below. The furniture was padded, the carpet lush, the colors warm and comforting.

It should not have frightened her so.

“Do you understand me?” the man on the other side of the desk asked. She nodded. Such a piggish little man, overweight, overdressed—he might have been one of her clients, coming to her for whippings and bootlickings and harnesses strapped cruelly tight. But this was a man who would never release control, never. “Tell me what you understand.”