Memories started to crowd him now: the hollow in her long neck; the scent of her expensive shampoo; her white, straight teeth; eyes brightened by drops; the carefully toned body.

“Nothing I can’t get out of,” she said.

“I’d like to drop by now.”

“Fine by me, sugar.” Karen purred into the phone; he remembered her as like a cat, sleek and sinewy. “You sound tense. Maybe we should start with a massage. I have all these different oils. . . .”

Montfort stood up. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“You can’t stay?”

Hugh looked over his shoulder at the girl, lying naked and unembarrassed in the middle of her satin sheets, her eyes, a kind of muddy green, flickering appreciatively over the taut muscles of his body, the scars along his back. She didn’t ask about the scar, being sensitized to Hugh, which was half, more than half of what made a good hooker. But he knew it turned her on; when she was bucking underneath him, her fingernails always went there, scratching, tracing the line.

“I’m sorry, I can’t.” He continued to button his shirt.

“That’s a pity.” She stretched luxuriantly, arching her back, displaying herself for him. “I could give you another hour, two even. No charge.”

He shook his head. “Sorry.”

“Don’t look so depressed, sweetie,” she said, with a slight touch of annoyance. “Nobody died.”

Montfort wondered if that was true. Afterwards, he felt as though something had died. Pride, perhaps, or hope. Just a little, every time; death by inches.

Karen’s condo had floor-to-ceiling windows with a fabulous view of downtown Boston: the skyscrapers jabbing upwards, silhouetted by neon against the night sky; many windows still ablaze; like all American cities, it didn’t sleep.

He dressed quickly, but still neatly. Montfort had a soldier’s habit about that. His bed was always perfectly made, his shoes always gleamed.

“Don’t be such a stranger the next time,” the girl said. “You’re always so long between visits.”

She used a kind of diction that made him imagine this was rote, her customary send-off. He reached into his jacket pocket and removed the envelope, laying it gently on the bed beside her.

She received it with a gracious nod of the head. “Thanks much, hon.”

“Thank you,” he said, politely. “Have a good evening, Karen. See you next time.”

“Hey—it was fun.” She lay there and looked up at him, and a slight gleam entered her eyes. “I get a lot, and you’re one of the best.”

“Thanks,” he muttered.

“We could try some other stuff next time you’re here. Dress-up maybe. Or toys . . . you ever used props? I got friends, too. Girls, boys . . .” she shrugged. “I guess just girls, for you. . . .”

Hugh shook his head, mutely. He felt the embarrassment as hot over his body as the need for her had been an hour before.