“It’s Johnny!” he said.

The door opened on a tall, surprisingly good-looking chippie in low heels. She wore a white blouse and brown skirt and there was nothing sexy about that wardrobe except the voluptuous body it hugged. Her hair was big and blonde and phony, but who cared? Her eyes were big, too, and gray-blue, her nose pert and her mouth too wide and too red and too full and still nobody cared. She looked like Cleo Moore in the B-movies, only tall—five ten easy.

“Sandy, this is Nate Heller,” Johnny said. We were out in the hall. “He’s from Chicago.”

“Remind me to be impressed,” she said. “Here, give me those clothes. You pick out something good? Hope you didn’t ask my aunt’s help. Her taste is in her fucking ass.”

We went in.

Sandy stepped aside, examining her share of the clothes—Hagan had provided several options. A guy only in his white-and-black polka-dot boxer shorts, a sleeveless sweaty white undershirt, and the black socks/shoes combo you see in stag films rolled off the bed and came over in a clumsy, hurried stagger. He was maybe five nine and not fat exactly, more a fruit-gone-bad softness, his legs short and stocky and nearly hairless.

He had dark thinning hair swept back, a receding hairline that emphasized a widow’s peak, and a short, wide nose and dull light blue eyes, like somebody who couldn’t remember where he put his car keys. No, his car. His mouth was a rosebud thing, and he had the kind of five o’clock shadow that just makes a face look dirty. A cigarette with an ash about to fall off drooped from the small, plump lips.

Like a greedy kid, he grabbed from Hagan the bottle of Harper’s and the remainder of the clothing—a silk shirt and fresh boxers—then beamed at him. “You are really on the ball, Johnny!”

“Aim to please, Steve.”

Steve put the shirt on over the grubby t-shirt and turned his back to us as he dropped his drawers and got into the new ones, giving us a look at a flabby ass that made Hagan and me share a cringe. Sandy was off to one side paying no attention to anything but the selection of clothes, which seemed to satisfy but not thrill her. Like her life. She took her fresh things into the bathroom and shut herself in. Nice to know she had a sense of decorum.

Then Steve turned and his face went as blank as a baby’s. He pointed at me. “Who’s this? Chicago?”

Steve’s voice was husky, low, smarter than the face.

I offered my hand. “Nate Heller. You must be Steve Strand.”

He stuck something out that proved to be a clammy excuse for an appendage.

Just looking at him, I knew he’d done this evil thing. Over against the wall was the metal luggage from the pawnshop—a green footlocker and black suitcase, likely filled with the money Letterman and I had dropped off by that covered bridge last night.