He went in the bathroom to clean up. It smelled like the whore, more baby powder, more cheap perfume. As he pissed a big yellow puddle on the floor by the toilet, he said, “Something to remember me by.”

Kelly had the money in her purse and was waiting, eyes down, as he came out. Afraid again.

He slapped her, lightly, to let her know he wasn’t angry. In a final fit of humor, he locked the door back the way it had been when they’d come in.

“Surprise,” he murmured, and patted the wood. “Don’t fuck with me, sweetheart. Never again.”

“No, Sol,” Kelly murmured. His eyes cut to her face, the pouting lips, the trembling chin.

“Not you,” he said, and smiled. “Sweetheart.”

As they started down the stairs, a man turned the corner and started up, a weak-chinned, rabbity guy way too well dressed for this part of town. Sol took it slow and the guy kept his head down, his face turned away.

A john, definitely. She got the rich ones; Sol eyed the camel coat, the old-money suit. The guy looked scared to death.

Sol passed him whistling. At the last minute, he grabbed the guy’s arm and swung him around; from the look on his face, the guy was about to piss his pants.

“Hey,” Sol said in his friendliest tone. The guy looked too stunned to listen, so he slapped him. “Hey. Buddy. Tell Velvet that Sol Lipsky sends his regards.”

When he let him go, the guy stumbled on up the stairs, chin down, shoulders hunched. Sol laughed and patted Kelly’s hand as they strolled away.

He could hardly wait for the whore to come home.

Chapter Eighteen

Martin

He’d known by the sixth overhead that it wasn’t going to work, and from that moment on it had been a hell of long, long silences, fumbling explanations, bored faces. Not only had he not convinced them, he’d unconvinced himself. Martin sat in the empty room with the lights blazing, picking up one over-head, dropping it, picking up another. They were spread out like playing cards. A losing hand.

Nobody had even bothered to take his handouts. They littered the table like the sad aftermath of a parade. He scraped four or five together, but they slipped out of his hands and spilled over the edge to the floor.

He put his head in his hands and rocked back and forth, back and forth. His chair squeaked in faint protest. Had he been right? Had he ever been right?

Watch me, Daddy. Watch me.

He sat straight up with a sharp gasp and saw Adrian Carling standing in the doorway. She walked in and picked up one of his handouts, flipped pages.

“How did it go?”

A laugh choked him.

“What did you tell them?” he asked. His voice sounded ragged, like his fingernails. “About me?”