Page 52 of Slow Burn

No lurkers in the dim foyer tonight—no muggers, rapists, serial killers. Television to the contrary, she had never seen one except for the kid who’d bowled her over in the mall. She watched the elevator panel over her head count down floors and thought longingly of a hot shower, a cool bed that she could stretch out in, covers she could wrap tight in.

Something moved in the shadows. Robby flinched and backed away as feet scraped, and a body lurched upright.

Velvet, puffy with sleep, technicolor with bruises. She held a thick lumpy suitcase that spilled balloons of garish cloth out of the broken zipper.

“They were in my house,” she said, and burst into weary tears.

“Who was it?” Robby asked, and held out a plate of cookies—store-bought again, to her regret. Velvet ate three in quick succession.

“Paolo, maybe—he’s Ming’s bodyguard. Maybe she’s pissed at me, Jesus, I don’t know.”

“Maybe it was a robbery.”

“No,” Velvet said, and picked up another cookie. She nervously nibbled bits from the edge. “Okay, maybe, they took some stuff, but it was, like, personal, you know? They tore my pictures off the wall, piled all my clothes in the floor, pissed all over the bathroom. Kicked in the TV set. They didn’t have to do that, they could have pawned it.”

Robby nodded slowly and settled back in the cool embrace of her mint green chair. She’d loaded a CD into the stereo, and the cool soothing music of Enya—as Irish as she could stand, lately—floated like mist around the room. Behind Velvet’s bowed head, the Ringling Brothers clown laughed.

“What did they take?”

“Huh?”

“Velvet, what did they take? Drugs?”

Velvet straightened indignantly and brushed her hair back from her face.

“I’m not a junkie,” she snapped.

Robby tipped her head back and sighed toward the ceiling. “Did they take any drugs?”

A pause, and Velvet said resentfully, “No. I don’t use.”

“Then what did they take?”

Velvet stood up and walked nervously around the room, clicking her ragged fingernails on the back of a chair, the wall, a small black table. At the window, she stared out at the sullen orange of sunrise.

“Money,” she said. “There. Happy?”

“How much?”

“Couple thousand. Enough to get me out of town, keep me alive until things settled down.” She blinked back tears again and wiped at her swollen face. “Bastards. I worked for that money.”

Robby reached for the cookies. Oatmeal, sugar, vanilla; she inhaled the warm perfume and crunched a bite to ease the cramp in her stomach.

“We all work for our money,” she said. Velvet snuffled wetly.

“Yeah, well, some of us work a little harder, if you know what I mean. Hell, all you do is steal.”

“Stealing is worse than prostitution?” Robby asked. She reached for a half-full glass of milk on the table and took a thick cold mouthful. Velvet covered her face with her hands and leaned her forehead against the window. “You really know how to make friends, Velvet.”

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “You gonna throw me out?”

Robby stood up and carried the cookies and empty milk glass back into the kitchen. From there, with warm water running soothingly over her hands, she said, “You know where the guest bedroom is. Sheets are in the closet. If you want anything else, look for it.”

She felt rather than heard Velvet behind her. She looked over her shoulder and saw her slumped against the wall, tears glittering in her tired wounded eyes.

Velvet reached out and touched Robby’s shoulder, a quick brush of fingertips. The tears spilled over.

Robby turned back to the dishes, scrubbing furiously. When she looked again, the room was empty except for the morning light.

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