“They made me take baths in Stillwater. Out here I’m my own man. Hurry up, we’re gonna make some money.”

“What?” says Simon, looking at the clock. “What are you plannin? To panhandle some hookers? Ain’t no one else awake right now.”

“Naw, naw. Real money. T-Man’ll be over soon.”

Simon shrugs the blanket closer around his shoulders and sighs. “Real money?”

“Yeah.”

Split takes the coffeepot off the hot plate and pours two cups to the top and hands one to Simon. It steams and splashes and Simon holds it gingerly by the tin handle, blows and sips carefully.

“You hear about the car out on the ice down below the university? They got this car out on the ice and they’re selling tickets on the radio. Whoever guesses when it’ll go through gets five hundred dollars. It’s not a new car, some wreck they got from the dump. Anyway, I got tickets and I know when it’s gonna break through.”

“You’re crazy.”

“I got stuff to break the ice and I got salt in case it doesn’t go right away.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Naw, man. It’s sure money. No one’s guarding it. Here,” he says, handing Simon his pants from where they hang over the back of the single chair.

Simon sets his coffee cup on the table. He stands and slips the pants on. The jeans are stiff with dirt and cold.

They hear feet on the cement steps and the shudder of the door as T-Man leans his weight against the water-swollen wood and pops it open.

He pushes the door shut with his shoulder and stamps his feet to move the cold that sticks to his boots.

Split and Simon nod. T-Man nods back, says “Hey,” and winds his way between them to the table where the coffeepot sits alone on a piece of bathroom tile that has found new life as a trivet. He pours a cup of coffee and spoons in creamer and sugar and stirs it as he sits down on the bowed bed.

“Ready to make some money?”

Simon shakes his head.

“You’re crazy, too.”

T-Man shrugs and drinks.

“I’ve heard of worse ways to scam some green.”

“I got it all figured out,” says Split. He tips the bottom of his cup toward the low-slung ceiling. Above, the hotel maids are already washing the yellowed sheets and pillowcases, pulling apart the stuck-together towels. “Well, we don’t got all day.”

“Yeah yeah yeah,” says Simon as he places his cup on the table and lets the blanket fall from his now-awake body. He retrieves a crumpled shirt from a cardboard box under the bed. He pulls it on, passing his hands down the front to smooth the wrinkles and unhooks his coat from where it perches dead-winged on the corner of the iron bed rail.

“Well?” says Simon.

“All right then.”