Mickey stares at me, shaking the cigar like an accusing finger. “Get the fuck out.” She seems like an okay broad, but I just stand there smiling for a second, floored by the whole weird scene. I take time to light a Pall Mall and then slip the .38 into its holster. Mickey’s watching me, and if she’s even a little afraid of me now that she knows I’ve got a gun, she doesn’t give me a fucking hint. She’s got balls, I’ll give the girl that. I peel a Franklin out of my roll. I reach over and tuck it into Mickey’s breast pocket. “You got a hell of a woman there. You treat that whore right. She gives some damn good head.” I blow Connie a kiss. I straighten my tie on the way out and then stop to pick up my hat from where it fell by the door when Connie pounced on me. I look back at Connie and wink at her. She’s crying, but then, like I said a minute ago, she cries about half the time. The dyke watches me leave, her face carved out of rock.

I open my pants, pull off the used condom, and toss it into the growing pile of matching condoms in the alley. I go out into the fog.

The sewer grates are steaming like hell’s ready to pay a visit. I know I can’t sleep. I wander through the street-level clouds looking for something to keep me awake. Connie has her dyke, and that’s the way things are. I’m not jealous. I’m happy for her. I mean, I’m up for a nickel, and Jimmy orders Connie not to visit me, with good reason. So that’s the end of it. Five years later, she’s found herself a dyke to keep her warm. No big deal, no one gets blamed by me. I just don’t want to sleep alone—yet.