"That's okay. I gotta get home anyway."

Randy slapped the car roof in reply, then darted into the apartment's dark front entry, never looking back.

QATAR ROLLED AWAY from the apartment. Instead of cutting back onto I-94 to Minneapolis, the car seemed all by itself to roll back across the interstate to Randy's place. He'd been thinking about the woman since they left the apartment-not the possibility of sex, but the other possibility.

He sat outside for ten minutes, unable to make up his mind. He was sure that Randy had no idea who he was; he might never get the money from the jewelry, but he ought to get something. He could feel an artery in his neck, beating harder, a thick, ropy pounding. He wanted her; he could feel her. He fished the starter rope out from under the front seat of the car and tucked it into his hip pocket.

Randy's brain was fried. He wouldn't remember this… Did he really know who Qatar was, anyway? And Qatar was suffused with courage. He was competent, hard, athletic. He went to the door and rang.

The blonde had gotten dressed again, though her feet were still bare. At the door, Qatar said, "Randy talked me into giving him five hundred. But he said I get you, any way I want."

The blonde looked past him, unsure, and then asked, "Where's Randy?"

"He's back at the apartment, partying. When we're done, I'm supposed to take you over there."

A misstep: Now she was suspicious. "I can't go outside 'til I got a name."

"He thought of the name," Qatar improvised. "You've got a name."

"I do? What is it?"

"Tiffany. Like the jewelry store."

"Tiffany," she said aloud. She tasted it. "That's pretty good. Tiffany." She looked him over again, then said, "Okay. Come on in."

She was a hooker, and it didn't take long: He got her on her hands and knees, in front of the couch, waiting for him to enter her. He'd rolled the condom down, positioned himself behind her. His pants had been tossed on the couch, and he fished the rope out of the back pocket. Touched her back with it; trailed it her down her spine.

She asked, "What's that?" and turned her head.

"Nothing, nothing… keep going."

Formed his loop; touched her neck again. Held the loop open, smiled, dropped it around her neck and…

Snap! He tightened it like a hangman's noose, and her hands went to her throat and she tried to turn, flailing like a caught crow, but he pressed her down with his weight. He didn't want to see her eyes; he used the power of the rope to bend her sideways and down, and she continued to flop and twist and struggle, her feet banging against the couch, smashing the back legs of an EZ-Boy, and then he half stood, and lifted her, held her suspended above the floor like a billfish on the deck of a big-game boat. Held her and shook her and watched her hands flailing, watched them weaken, felt the power surging through his arms into his heart…

As her struggles slowed and weakened, he straddled her and lowered her to the floor, her hands scratching along the furry carpet. He knelt over her, then sat on her buttocks, keeping the pressure on, his teeth showing now in a slashing grimace, squeezing, squeezing. At the end, she arched her back and her hands fluttered in a terminal dog-paddle, and she died.

God, that felt good.

When she stopped moving, stopped the shuddering that came with brain death, Qatar released his grip, sat back on her hips. He was sweating, just a bit, and wiped his forehead with his shirtsleeve, then rolled her over. Her eyes were open, staring sightlessly up at the ceiling, her mouth touched with blood; and a puddle of blood pooled on the rug beneath her neck. She'd bitten her tongue, he thought. He rolled her. "Tits not bad. Soft and warm," he said.

No response. After a minute with her, he sighed and stood up. "Gotta get going," he said. "The clock is running. Gotta go." He didn't feel rushed; if anything, he felt languid.

And his lip hurt, he realized. He wandered into the bathroom to look at it in the mirror. He had a full underlip, usually pink, now bruised. Sometime during the struggle, she must have hit him, but he didn't remember it. Hit him hard, judging from the split lip. There was no swelling yet, but he could taste the blood in his mouth. "That was completely fucking unnecessary," he said. He probed the cut with his tongue, winced at the pain. The lip would get big if he didn't get some ice on it, but the swelling would be disguised by his thin beard. "Unfucking-necessary."

He had to stay focused. He got dressed, flushed the condom-surprised to find it full of semen; he didn't remember that part-straightened his shirt, tucked it back in his trousers, got himself neat. Got a chunk of toilet paper and walked through the apartment, wiping everything he could remember touching. Another flush, and he was done.

"Thank God for toilets," he said to himself.

Money. There wouldn't be any cash, but there should be something… Randy had stuck Neumann's jewelry in his pocket, so that was gone. Qatar walked through the apartment, looking. And found almost nothing small. Randy had apparently sold everything that could be peddled on the street.

"Moron," he said aloud. He stepped over the woman's body on the way out. Queen for a day, Tiffany for a minute. Nice tits, though.

RANDY GOT BACK at dawn and pounded on the door, because he didn't want to go through the whole business of finding his key. He was not in any shape to find it. So he beat on the door until somebody shouted, "Go away or we'll call the police."

Some fuckin' neighbor. But he didn't need the police, so he took five minutes and finally found the key, and another five minutes and he fit it into the lock and the door swung open. He shouted up the stairs, got no answer. Climbed the stairs in the dark-there was a switch at the entrance, but he was too fucked up to use it-and in the living room, in the dark, tripped over the woman's body.

"Fuckin'…" He groped around on the floor, felt a breast. Knew what it was and knew it was too cold. Randy started down, the cocaine strength dissipating like a fart in a thunderstorm. He crawled across the floor to a lamp, climbed the lamp like a monkey, turned it on.

Looked down at what's-her-name. Who was she? What had he done? He pressed his hands to his temple, trying to squeeze out the memories that must be there somewhere. When had he done it?

"Motherfucker," he said.

15

WEATHER HAD SPENT the night at her own place. "If we haven't rung the bell yet, I don't think we'll get it done this month," she'd said. "Plus, my house is getting stale. I need to air it out."

Lucas didn't remember that when he woke up. Still drowsy, he reached out for her shoulder, came up with air, and bumped up, quickly awake, looking for her. He remembered the question he'd asked the night before. Pregnant? Not pregnant? When would they know?

"In the bye and bye," she'd said cheerfully. "It was fun working with you, Davenport. Maybe we can do it again next month. Then again, maybe we won't have to."

He half-smiled at the thought, punched his pillow back into shape, and drifted off again. Lucas liked to stay up late, but didn't like early mornings. A good day, he believed, generally started around ten o'clock.

TEN O'CLOCK WAS just coming up when the phone rang, and continued to ring. He recognized Del's style. "Yeah?"

"Randy's around, but I can't find him. People say he ran into some shit out in L.A. Ambition combined with stupidity, probably."

"Probably," Lucas said. He yawned. "Who'd you talk to?"

"The Toehy sisters. They said he was running a hooker named Charmin until a couple of weeks ago, but-"

"Charmin like the toilet paper?"

"That's what they say. Anyway, he wandered off in a cocaine blizzard, and she transferred to DDT and that's where she's still at. Thing is, I can't find DDT right now. I got a couple of people looking for him and also for Randy."