He stopped. She stopped as well. A passing car side-lit her face. She was a portrait framed by Gordon Parks.

“It would be nice to see you again.”

“I don’t feel the same way.”

“Why?”

She glanced at his shoes. “I could fall for a man like you.”

“What kinda man is that?”

“One who makes me laugh.”

“Is that right?”

“That’s the point. It’s wrong … so wrong for me to have these …” She aborted the word.

“Feelings,” he said.

“Yeah … feelings, like I know you from somewhere … or that you’d be nice to know.”

“Yeah? You like me then?”

“I think that’s obvious.”

“Why you like me?”

“Because you’re smart.”

“Actually, I’m retarded.” He crossed his eyes … made her laugh again.

“And on top of being smart you have nice teeth—a man should have nice teeth. Not necessarily perfect teeth. But nice ones—and you’re bow-legged. You remind me of a cowboy. You’re my high plains drifter. And I like your nose.”

“My nose?”

“It’s very sleek … like a jaguar.”

“The car?”

“The cat,” she said, ignoring him. “You’re very feline, you know. Your hair is like a lion’s. Plus you have really nice skin. I wish I were as dark as you.”

“It rubs off, y’know.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

They stared at each other, unsure what to say.

“So what do we do now?”

“Go about our business,” she said, “and wonder, what if?”

“What if what?”

“What if, what if … you know …”

“It would be really nice to see you again, Miss Sweet Words.”

“That would break the rules of flirting. I’m sure you know them. You do it so well.”

“No, I don’t,” he said, trying to stall her.

“Yes, you do.”

“Okay … take care then.”

“Okay, Clint.”

She whistled the theme from the The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly, smiled, and walked away. He watched as the night consumed her. Then he called the gallery, and headed east to Crosby.

The street was dark and lonely. Grungy. Gloom seeped out of the ground like tar. In the nearground, beneath a scaffold, a red flame bloomed and withered, and a voice cut through: “Yow, faggot.”

He trailed it across the cracked sidewalk into the shadows of what he saw was a doorway. His first thought was, He hasn’t gone, he’s still here. Then he thought about the last time he’d seen him, how badly that had ended, and wondered if this time would be different.

Am I still upset? he asked himself. He thought about the money, forty thousand pounds. He wasn’t sure. But it had never been the money. It had always been the treachery and the lies.

He formed the face in his mind, saw its decay, saw the beauty that remained insistent. When Ian was young he’d resembled Haile Selassie, especially in the forehead and the eyes.

“Yow,” Fire said as Ian stepped into the light. “Good to see you.”

They hugged and parted quickly.