There was no sign of other drugs in the room, but her pupils were contracted to pinpoints, suggesting that she'd taken heroin or some other opiate. Whatever the combination, it was sending her swiftly over the edge. She was slumped uncomfortably against the bedstead, and she was breathing noisily through her mouth. A little trickle of whisky and saliva dribbled from the corner of her slack lower lip.

Still, she was beautiful. The thought struck me that she would always look beautiful, even when she was being ugly. Hers was a big, lovely, empty face: the face of a pom-pom girl at a football match, the face advertisers use to help them sell preposterous and irrelevant things.

"So go on, tell me. What's he like, that little kid?"

"Well, I think he's some kind of religious fanatic," I confided, smiling, as I looked over my shoulder at the sleeping boy. "He made me stop three times today, and this evening, so he could say his prayers. I don't know if it's doing his soul any good, but his stomach seems to be working fine. He can eat like they're giving prizes for it. He kept me in the restaurant for more than two hours tonight, eating everything from noodles and grilled fish to ice cream and jelly. That's why we're late. I would've been home ages ago, but I couldn't get him out of the restaurant. It's going to cost me an arm and a leg to keep him for the next couple of days. He eats more than I do."

"Do you know how Hannibal died?" she asked.

"Come again?"

"Hannibal, that guy with the elephants. Don't you know your history? He crossed the Alps, with his elephants, to attack the Romans."

"Yeah, I know who you're talking about," I said testily, irritated by the conversational non sequitur.

"Well, how did he die?" she demanded. Her expressions were becoming exaggerated, the gross burlesque of the drunk.

"I don't know."

"Ha!" she scoffed. "You don't know everything."

"No. I don't know everything."

There was a lengthening silence. She stared at me blankly. It seemed that I could see the thoughts drifting downwards, through the blue of her eyes, like white flakes in the bubble of a snow dome.

"So, are you going to tell me?" I probed after a while. "How did he die?"

"Who die?" she asked, mystified.

"Hannibal. You were going to tell me how he died."

"Oh, him. Well, he kinda led this army of thirty thousand guys over the Alps into Italy, and fought the Romans for like, sixteen years. Six-teen goddamn years! And he never got beaten, even one time. Then, after a lot of other shit, he went back to his own country, where he became a big honcho, what with being a big hero and all. But the Romans, those guys never forgot that he embarrassed the fuck outta them, so they used politics, and they got his own people to turn on him, and kick him out. Are you getting any of this?"

"Sure."

"I mean really, am I wastin' my goddamn time here with this? I don't have to do this, you know. I can spend my time with a lot better people than you. I can be with anyone I like. Anyone!"

The forgotten cigarette was burning down to her fingers. I placed the ashtray under it and prised it loose, letting it fall from her hand into the bowl. She didn't seem to notice. "Okay, so the Romans forced Hannibal's own people to kick him out," I pressed, actually curious about the fate of the Carthaginian warrior.

"They exiled him," she corrected grumpily.

"Exiled him. Then what happened? How did he die?"

Lisa stirred her head from the pillows suddenly, her movements groggy, and glared at me with what seemed to be real malevolence.

"What's so special about Karla, huh?" she demanded furiously.

"I'm more beautiful than she is! Take a good look-my tits are better than hers."

She pulled the silk jacket open until she was quite naked, touching at her breasts clumsily. "Well? Aren't they?"

"They're... very nice," I muttered.

"Nice? They're goddamn beautiful is what they are. They're perfect! You want to touch them, don't you? Here!"

She snatched at my wrist with surprising speed, and dragged my hand onto her thigh, near the hip. The flesh was warm and smooth and supple. Nothing in the world is so soft and pleasing to the touch as the skin of a woman's thigh. No flower, feather, or fabric can match that velvet whisper of flesh. No matter how unequal they may be in other ways, all women, old and young, fat and thin, beautiful and ugly, have that perfection. It's a great part of the reason why men hunger to possess women, and so often convince themselves that they do possess them: the thigh, that touch.

"Has Karla told you what I did at the Palace, huh? What I used to do there?" she said with puzzling hostility, moving my hand onto the hard little mound of blonde hair between her legs. "Madame Zhou has us play games there. They're big on games at the Palace.

Karla told you about those games, did she? Huh? Blind Man's Butt, did she tell you about that? The customers wear blindfolds and get a prize for guessing which one of us they push their cock into. No hands, ya see. That's the trick. Did she tell you any of this? Did she tell you about the Chair? That's a real popular number. One girl kneels down on her hands and knees, see, then another girl lies on top of her, back to back, and they tie them together. The customers go from one to another, kind of a multiple choice. Is this turnin' you on, Lin? Are you gettin' hot with this? It used to turn Karla's customers on, when she brought them to the Palace. Karla has a business head. Did you know that?

I worked at the Palace, but it was just a job, and all I ever made out of it was money. She's the one who made it dirty. She's the one who made it a... a sick thing. Karla's the one who'll do anything to get what she wants. Damn right, a business head, and a heart to match.."

She was rubbing my hand against herself with both of her own hands, grinding against it with rolling motions of her hips. She drew up her knees, and her legs parted. My hand was drawn to the lips of her vagina, heavy and swollen and wet. She pushed two of my fingers inside the dark heat.

"You feel that?" she mumbled, her teeth clenched and exposed in a grim smile. "That's muscle power, boy. That's what that is.

That's training and practice, hours of it, months of it. Madame Zhou makes us squat, and squeeze down hard on a pencil, to build up a grip like a fist. I got so fuckin' good at it, I could write a letter with the goddamn thing. You feel how good that is?

You'll never find anything as tight as this, not anywhere. Karla isn't this good. I know she isn't. What's the matter with you?

Don't you wanna fuck me? What are you, some kinda faggot? I..."

She was still squeezing down on my fingers, still grasping at my wrist, but the straining smile faded, and her face slowly turned away.

"I... I... I think I'm gonna throw up."

I withdrew my fingers from her body, and my hand from her weakening grip, and backed away from the bed towards the bathroom. Hurriedly soaking a towel in cold water and grabbing up a large dish from the bathroom, I returned to find her sprawled out awkwardly, her hands on her belly. I straightened her into a more comfortable position, covering her with a light cotton blanket. I draped the cool towel over her forehead. She stirred a little, but she didn't resist. Her frown gradually dissolved into the earnest mask of the unwell.

"He committed suicide," she said softly, her eyes closed. "That Hannibal. They were going to extradite him back to Rome, make him face charges at a trial, so he killed himself. How do ya like that? After all that fighting, all those elephants, all those big battles, he killed himself. It's true. Karla told me. Karla always tells the truth... even when she's lying... she said that to me once... I always tell the truth, even when I'm lying ... Fuck, I love that girl. I love that girl. You know, she saved me from that place-and you did, too-and she's helping me to get clean... to dry out... gotta dry out, Lin... Gilbert... gotta get off the shit... I love that girl..." She slept. I watched her for a while, waiting to see if she was sick, if she would wake, but she was wrapped in unworried sleep.