Myra stuck her finger down her throat and made a gagging sound.

“Seven bucks. Not including gratuity.”

Gratuity almost served as a launching pad for the wad of gum in Myra’s left cheek. Myra’s teeth went back to work, pounding her ammunition into submission.

Velvet opened her purse.

Cleaned out.

She stared in shock, frozen, while Myra tapped her foot in irregular syncopation to the pounding of her heart.

“Sonofabitch,” Velvet finally murmured blankly. Had it been the cowboy? She craned her neck and found him, cheerfully gulping down a double at the bar and already laughing with buddies he hadn’t had two minutes before. Nah, the cowboy wasn’t smart enough. Besides, he’d never gotten close enough. Who else? Anybody—that prissy-faced, tight-assed suit. Of course. Goddamn fucking bitch. “Ah—forget it.”

Myra shrugged and headed off in the direction of the next bubble she blew. Velvet teetered to her feet, wrapped the mink more securely around her, and headed for the bathroom.

The suit was not by the phones. Velvet kept going. In the room on the right a scarred, tilting pool table waited unsuccessfully for suckers. The bathroom was only about five feet farther down, but her balance moved six degrees left and she grabbed a wall. She was still standing there waiting for the floor to get back under her when the bathroom door swung open and a brown-haired woman in blue jeans and an NYU sweatshirt came out carrying a briefcase. Except for the briefcase, there was no resemblance to the suit—this woman had moussed waved hair, round glasses, red lipstick. She had a roundish bland face, no cheekbones to speak of, a button nose, brown eyes smiling under the glasses.

But her eyes went blank when she saw Velvet standing there.

“Excuse me,” she murmured, and started to slide by. Velvet’s arm came up like a toll barrier. She almost toppled over.

“I want my fushin—fuckin’ money.”

The woman’s eyes grew wide and focused, as if she had just seen her for the first time. Not surprised, though. Even the smile was smooth.

“I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake,” the woman said, and there was a lilt that sounded Irish buried under asphalt-thick layers of Brooklyn. Great, Velvet thought. I don’t even get a real American thief. Fucking foreigners.

“No mishtakes.” Velvet concentrated on putting the words together; they kept slipping like wet fish. Her voice kept climbing higher on her, losing its balance. “I’m gonna yell if I don’t shee it right now, now, you know?”

“You’re going to get us both arrested.”

“So?”

Slowly, very slowly, the other woman reached in the front pocket of her blue jeans and pulled out two hundred dollars in crisp twenties, not even a little damp. Velvet snatched the money and fanned the bills.