Page 8 of Slow Burn

The hooker was staring down at her feet; she’d managed to get both shoes on, and was balancing by sheer force of will. Her eyes were Orphan Annie blank.Maybe, Robby thought,if I just go inside and close the door, she won’t figure it out.

Then again, she’d been smart enough to keep her mouth shut around the cops. Robby picked her way around oil stains back to where the hooker waited, and steered her in a zigzag to the door.

A blast of warm air, cinnamon, and nutmeg hit her in the face, thick enough to taste. The hooker hung back in the doorway, staring blearily at the room, the clean carpeted floor, comfortable warm chairs.

“Shthis?” She squinted at a big-screen television set at the far end of the room. “Hey, wow. Cable?”

Robby pulled hard, got her inside, and shut the door with a sense of relief—until she turned and saw Jim staring, and Kelly, and Mark. Mark had come in from the kitchen carrying a plateful of what looked like oatmeal cookies. Kelly half-reclined on the peach-colored sofa,Peoplemagazine draped forgotten over her chest. They all looked fascinated and horrified, like people passing a car wreck.

Velvet leaned heavily against Robby, batted tear-clumped eyelashes, and said, “’Lo, folks.”

“Not a word,” Robby snapped when Kelly opened her mouth; it shut again with a snap. “Ignore her. Ah—Velvet—why don’t you go in the bathroom and get cleaned up.”

“Bathroom?” Velvet echoed. “Yeah. Good idea.”

She pulled free of Robby’s grip and wandered off to the left, toward the closet. Jim grabbed her and pushed her in the right direction. Mark leaned over and looked at the oily shoeprints she’d left in the gray carpeting. The silence felt like interrogation.

Robby sank into a floral armchair, closed her eyes, and pressed both hands against her throbbing forehead. After a minute, something cold touched her arm, and she looked up to find Mark holding out a bottle of Perrier, a serious look on his thin delicate face.

“None of my business,” he said, “but, honey, I’d be a little choosier if I were you.”

She took the bottle and knocked it lightly against the side of his head. He staggered back in mock pain and dropped into a chair on the other side of the couch, near Kelly.

“It’s not funny,” said Jim. His voice was muffled, because he was in the process of stripping off layers of stinking sweaters and ragged shirts. His tatty raincoat lay in a tired slump on the carpet. “Well? Who is she?”

“Nobody,” Robby said, and sipped. The water had a bitter undertaste, or maybe that was just her mood. “A drunk. Look, she tagged me in the bar, then followed me out on the street. I almost got busted before I quieted her down. Just leave her alone. I’ll feed her some drinks, and she won’t remember her name, much less where she’s been.”

Jim fought his way free of the sweaters and stood there, hair a leonine bristling mass around his face, glaring at her. He picked up the clothes and began stuffing them into a garbage sack, the better to ferment the odors.

“Stupid,” he muttered. “Unbelievable. This is myhome, Robby, what were you thinking? Oh, forget it.”

“You’ll feel better after you take a shower,” Mark offered kindly. Jim’s eyes sleeted over.

“There is ahookerin mybathroom.”

On cue, there was noise from that direction. Bumps. Knocks. The struggle subsided into ominous silence. Robby sagged deeper into her armchair under the weight of Jim’s stare.

“Sorry.”

“Let’s just get this over with,” Jim said with careful precision. “Kelly?”

Kelly, still smirking, sat up and pulled her purse out from under the table. She spilled out wallets and began stripping the contents into neat piles. Identification, credit cards, cash. Mark opened his back-pack, searched between textbooks, and added his take to the pile. Robby flicked the latches on her briefcase and pulled cash from under her carefully folded business suit and shoes.

“My Amex guy’s out of town,” Mark said as he sorted credit cards into stacks—green, silver, gold. He frowned over a couple and put them aside in a reject pile. “Jim, you got anybody for those?”

“Amex? No. I’ll take VISA and MasterCard. Oh, and Antoine says he can move all the ID we have.”

“That’s good, ’cause it looks like I got a lot of it today. Shit, you’d think these SMU assholes would have cash.” Mark himself was a sometime-student at Texas Christian University, an arch-rival of Southern Methodist University, and appropriately prejudiced on the subject.

“ATM cards?” Robby asked, and held up one in its suede-paper folder. Kelly beckoned without looking up; Robby slid it over the table toward her.

“Sol will want it.”

The name cast a quiet chill over the room. Robby glanced up and saw Jim staring down at the carpet, brow furrowed.

“Yeah, well, I’m sure he does.” Jim snatched up his raincoat and raided the hidden inner pockets, finding a steady trickle of cash, wallets, and cards. His hands were the only part of him that didn’t fit his homeless image—smooth hands, compact, adept as any stage magician’s. The first time she’d met him, Robby had hardly felt the dip that took her watch, and god knew she’d been looking for it.

She smiled at him and saw him look away. The pain took her unexpectedly; it hurt to have him mistrust her, after three years of perfect partnership. Mark, Kelly—she liked them, in a fondly annoyed way. But Jim—

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