"You don't have to leave empty-handed," the man said. He shook the paper bag, and its contents clinked. "See, I'm a burglar too. I don't know that I'm as moral as you, but I'm willing to split the take."

Blackburn paused. He eyed the paper bag. "I was watching this place. How'd you get in?"

"Through a window in the bathroom. On the back side of the building."

"Someone might see your ladder."

The man shook his head. "I climbed the wall. Plenty of space between the bricks." He turned the paper bag upside down. Rings, necklaces, and earrings fell to the carpet. "This has to be fifty-fifty, so don't cheat."

"Why let me have any of it?" Blackburn asked.

The man knelt on the floor and bent over the tangle of jewelry. His ponytail hung down over his shoulder. "So you won't turn me in." He looked up and smiled. "And so if we're caught, I can plea-bargain the punishment over your way."

Blackburn replaced the Python in its pouch. "I'll take that class ring."

The man flicked it toward him. "You can call me Roy-Boy."

"I don't need to call you anything," Blackburn said, squatting to pick up the ring. "I won't be seeing you again."

"The best laid plans, Musician."

"I'm not a musician."

"In your world, maybe not. In mine, you play electric guitar. You want to sound like Hendrix, but you're too white and you don't do enough drugs."

Blackburn said nothing. He took the ring and three gold chains, then picked up his duffel bag and left. He crossed the street and hid behind a dumpster to watch the apartment building. He wanted to see if Roy-Boy left too.

A few minutes later Roy-Boy appeared under a streetlight and looked across at the dumpster. He pointed his right finger and waggled his thumb to mimic a pistol. Then he walked away.

Blackburn waited until Roy-Boy was out of sight before walking the four blocks to his Plymouth Duster. The back of his neck tingled. He looked in all directions, but saw no one. He thought he smelled deodorant soap, but decided it was his clothes. Maybe he had used too much detergent.

Two nights later, on Friday, Blackburn stuffed his pockets with cash and drove to The Hoot, a bar near the Rice University campus. His coat felt light without the Python, which he had hidden in his closet. He wouldn't need a gun tonight. His goal was to seduce one of the college girls he had met at The Hoot the week before, preferably the thin brunette who was a flute player in the marching band. The last time he'd had sex had been behind a barbecue pit at a Labor Day picnic, and here it was almost Christmas. He was afraid the top of his head might blow off.

The Hoot was crowded. It smelled of moist flesh and beer, and throbbed with canned rock 'n' roll. The flute player was there. Blackburn went to her and made the comment that the Rice football team could have had more success the previous weekend had it used the band's woodwind section in place of its defensive line. The flute player laughed. She remembered him and called him Alan, the name he was using now. Her name was Heather. It seemed to Blackburn that at least half of the twenty-year-old women in the world were named Heather, but he didn't tell her that. He liked her. She had a fine sense of humor. It had been her idea, she said, for the Marching Owl Band to cover their uniforms with black plastic trash bags and lie down on the football field at halftime to simulate an oil slick.

Heather was a steady drinker, and Blackburn felt obliged to match her. After half an hour he had to excuse himself for a few minutes. When he came out of the men's room, he saw that someone had taken his place at the bar and was leaning close to Heather. Blackburn couldn't see this person's head, but he could tell from the way the jeans fit across the hips that it was a male.

Heather saw Blackburn and waved. "Hey!" she called. "Everything come out okay?"

The man beside her raised his head, and Blackburn saw that it was Roy-Boy.

Roy-Boy smiled as Blackburn approached. "Musician," he said. His ponytail was wet. It glistened in the neon glow.

Heather looked from Blackburn to Roy-Boy. "You guys know each other?"

"We're in the same business," Roy-Boy said. He turned on his bar stool so that his knee touched Heather's thigh.

Blackburn's teeth clenched. The sharp scent of Roy-Boy's deodorant soap was cutting through the other smells.

"Really?" Heather said. "What do you do?"

"We sell discount merchandise," Roy-Boy said. "We're competitors, actually."

Heather looked concerned. "Does that mean you don't like each other?"

"No," Roy-Boy said. "In fact, we can help each other."

"I'm thinking of getting into another line of work," Blackburn said. But if he stopped stealing, he would have to take a job at yet another fast-food restaurant. It was the only legal work he was qualified to do. He had fried burgers or chicken, or stuffed burritos, in every city he had ever stayed in more than a few days. He was sick of it.

"I'd be sorry if you did that, Alan," Roy-Boy said.

Blackburn looked at Heather. "Did you tell him my name?" He realized after he said it that it sounded like an accusation. The beer had made him stupid.

"No," Heather said, frowning. "Why would I? You know each other, right?"

"We've never exchanged names," Roy-Boy told her, "but I got curious and asked around about him. Has he told you he's a guitar player? He plays a left-handed Telecaster."

Heather's frown vanished. "You in a band?" she asked Blackburn.

"No," he said. "I mean, not right now."

"He was in three bands at once when he lived in Austin," Roy-Boy said. "He even played with Stevie Ray a couple of times."

Heather was gazing at Blackburn. "Why'd you quit?"

"No money in it," he said.

Roy-Boy got off the bar stool. "That reminds me," he said. "I have some work to catch up on." He dropped a five-dollar bill on the bar. "Next round's on me."

"Oh, that's sweet," Heather said.

"Yeah," Blackburn said.

Roy-Boy clapped Blackburn on the shoulder. "Happy to do it," he said. "Us old guys got to stick together." He headed for the door.

Blackburn imagined making Roy-Boy eat his own eyes.

"Bye, Steve!" Heather called. Then she grinned at Blackburn. "How old are you, anyway?"

Blackburn sat down on the empty stool. It was warm from Roy-Boy, so he stood up again.

"Twenty-seven," he said. "How about you?"

Heather raised her beer mug. "Twenty-one, of course. You don't think I'd come into a bar if I wasn't, do you?"

"Guess not."

"I'd love to hear you play sometime."

Blackburn's tongue tasted like soap. "I don't have a guitar now," he said.

Heather shrugged. "Okay, I'll play for you instead. You like flute music?"

"You bet," Blackburn said. The back of his neck tingled, and he turned.

Roy-Boy was standing outside, looking in through the cluster of neon signs in the front window. He pointed his finger at Blackburn and waggled his thumb.

"So, you want to have another beer?" Heather asked. "Or would you like to hear some flute?"

Blackburn turned back to her. "Flute," he said.

They stood to leave. Roy-Boy was gone from the window. Blackburn left the five-dollar bill on the bar.

In the morning Blackburn awoke with Heather's rump against his belly. Since the end of his marriage, it was rare that he spent an entire night with a woman, and even rarer that he let it happen at his place. But as he and Heather had left The Hoot, she had said that her apartment was off-limits for sex because her roommate was a born-again Christian. So they had decided to put off the flute recital, and Blackburn had taken Heather to his studio crackerbox in the Heights. After a few hours they had fallen asleep together.