He ripped it open and read the first couple of paragraphs. Bullshit, bullshit, pig shit, farmer shit. It made a satisfying crisp crunch when he crumpled it and tossed it on the floor with the rest of the mess. She hadn’t sent any money home, or Mom would have mentioned it in between the hog reports. That meant it was still here, someplace; he’d never met a hooker yet who’d believed in banks. She’d want it here, where she could touch it.

Little whore. He’d give her something to touch. If he had to kick her around to make his point, fine. He would, one way or another, get his money back, and make sure none of his people got any ideas about holding back again.

He’d already emptied Velvet’s cheap dresser; the cheap underwear lay in a red and black tangle on the ratty carpet, and now he yanked the drawers out and checked the backs, the sides, the bottoms. Nothing. Nothing inside the dresser frame, either. He kicked it apart, just to be sure.

“Honey?” That was Kelly, sitting on the bed where he’d told her to wait. He glanced over. She looked scared. That was good. He was doing half of this shit for her benefit. “Honey, let’s go. This is stupid. She wouldn’t keep anything here.”

“It’s here,” he said flatly. “Whores don’t keep Swiss bank accounts. You, sit there and shut up. Read a book or something. Let me do my job.”

She looked down at her clenched hands, red lips trembling. He thought for a second about fucking her in the whore’s bed, but he really didn’t have the time and, anyway, Kelly was getting stale. Enthusiastic, but not too bright. Robby, now … Robby would fuck nice. He stared at Kelly’s too-round breasts for a couple more seconds, thinking about Robby, and felt pressure build in his groin.

Shit. He reached over and ripped more pictures off the wall, big-eyed cats and big-eyed kids, something a teenager would hang in a locker. Nothing behind the prints but mildew-laced cardboard.

He yanked open the closet door and started pulling clothes. She liked Spandex and cheap plastic, everything tight. He held up a pair of thigh-high black patent fetish boots. Kelly brightened.

“What size?” she asked. He shrugged and tossed them to her, went back to ripping pockets and adding to the growing pile on the carpet. Behind him, he heard her grunt as she tried to squeeze fat legs into thin boots. That would keep her busy for a while.

“Ow!”

Sol picked a stiff black velvet jacket off a hanger and probed the pockets. Second-hand from a dead old lady, it still smelled of mothballs and gardenias.

“Sol!”

“What?” he snarled, and glanced back to see her staring at something in her hand. A wad of green. Had to be at least a thousand.