A kid comes in the room, he can’t be more than fifteen. He doesn’t see me at first. He takes a look at Connie, disheveled and half clothed. The guy’s wearing airport blues, smoking a big fat stogie, but he’s definitely not more than fifteen, sixteen years old. Okay, I’ve got it figured. This is the guy Connie’s living with. She always did have a weakness for younger men. He turns and sees me. I drop my hand to my side, still holding the .38 but out of sight. I stand up. “What the fuck is this?” says the guy, and his voice is as high as they get. He starts at me, and I bring up the .38. He stops. Then I get it. She almost had me taken, the chick has practically no tits and this thin sleazy mustache. And that fucking cigar, it’s bigger than my dick by a couple inches. She’s not a bad-looking dame, though. She turns to Connie and looks like she’s about to hit her. I grip the butt of the .38. Connie stands up, clutching the robe together in front of her. “Please, Mickey, take it easy. He’s just a trick. Just a trick I brought back here after the show.”

Mickey looks at me, her eyes stone butch rage. She takes the cigar out of her mouth. “I told you not to fucking bring them here,” she growls.

“I know,” Connie says, wriggling up against the dyke. “I just brought him here because it was so late. I didn’t think you’d come home early. I figured it’d be okay; he just wanted a quick one and he was paying. I thought you’d be at work.”

“I moved to first graveyard shift, Consuela; don’t you fucking remember?”

“Oh, Mickey, I’m so sorry, I was gone when you left for work today, remember—look, he’s just a trick, I didn’t think you’d be here.”