Then she kisses me, climbs gently on top of me, her body soft and open and her legs spread, facing me for the first time ever. She nuzzles my ear and tells me softly, “You get to be the first, lover, my very first, just like I’m a sweet little virgin. Let’s pretend I’m sixteen or something, and we’re both doing this for the first time…you can be my boyfriend, Jake.” And so she gets off the bed and floats across the room to the lingerie drawer, slips out of the stained red slip, and puts on a new clean white one. “Take off your clothes, Jake.”

I get off the bed and undress, leaving my clothes in a pile on the floor, and the two of us embrace in the slanted light from the window. We climb into bed together and make out for a long, long time, like we really are sixteen or something and horny as can be, and when we finally do it I know for sure it’s for the first time ever.

It feels different than anything I’ve ever done, like I’m a virgin, too, which maybe I am, technically. But Connie’s weeping as I finish off inside her. She tells me, over and over again, “I’m sorry, Jake, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…I shouldn’t have taken that money….” And even though I know Jimmy is going to whack me, smear my brains like succulent marmalade, I tell Connie, “It’s okay, shhhhhh—shhhh, little girl, it’s okay, it’s okay, don’t worry….” I can’t get the thought out of my head, of what it’s going to be like, when they finally come for me.

What’s the fucking point in running? Hiding? It doesn’t seem to matter anymore. I’ve still got the room at the Ambassador. I’m drinking pretty heavy. I keep looking at the .38, wondering if it wouldn’t be smarter to kill myself. Instead, when I hear the footsteps on the stairs, I empty the .38 and toss it out the window, into the garbage heap below with all the shells.

But they don’t bust the door down. Something’s really fucked up—they knock. Maybe it’s the landlord. I answer the door in my underwear, not really giving a shit if it is Jimmy, not caring if he does it or if he sends one of his men, if they give it to me in the face or the back of the head. Who gives a rat’s ass anymore? But instead of one of those anonymous mob revolvers with porous tape on the grip and trigger, I see a different kind of silver, a shield.

The cop says my name.

“Maybe,” I tell him.

He tells me his name and department—Sergeant Fitz, Homicide. “We’d like you to come down to the police station.”