Please, says the old woman. Please. I have asthma.

Jude pokes her index finger into her mouth and slowly withdraws it, staring at me with lazy eyes.

Asthma, says the woman.

Her husband makes a clucking sound and she slumps against him. He puts his arm around her and pats her shoulder.

Well? says Jude.

I thought you weren’t ready for sex, I say.

Jude grunts. A blowjob is not sex. It’s a favor, a service.

That’s great. Let them go.

No, she says. Empty your fucking pockets.

The old guy sniffs. Think you better empty your pockets, son.

I crouch and empty my pockets onto the floor. There isn’t much. A clump of money, two hundred dollars or so. A half pack of cigarettes, a book of matches. Pocket knife. The key to Jude’s hotel room. Sugar Finch’s wallet, thin and useless. Jude takes it all, putting everything in her bag. She counts the money, then puts it away too.

Having fun? I say.

Not yet, she says.

The growl of a zipper and now Jude gives me something in return. The gun she was waving about before, the little black automatic, a Walther P22.

What is this? I say.

It’s a gun, sweetie. Do you like it?

I turn it over and over in my hands. Black steel under fluorescent light. The gun fits nicely in my palm. To my left, the old woman is breathing like a wounded horse and I think she’s going to have a heart attack. I run a hand through my hair and it comes away wet.

Do you like it? says Jude.

Yes, I say. It’s very nice. Why are you giving it to me?

Jude shrugs. Would you rather lie around that hotel room and wait for the world to end?

I stare at her. Would I rather lie around the hotel room waiting for the world to end than what?

This is about the old man, she whispers.

What about him?

He’s a molester.

Please, I say.

Look at him, she says. Look at him.

I glance to my left and imagine the old guy down on his knees. Eyes pink and streaming. The old man has manicured hands, immaculate clothes. He doesn’t look like a molester but then they never do. I see a hole in his forehead the size of a quarter.

What are you looking at, sir? says the old man in a quavering voice.

Do you have an erection? Jude says, to me.

Jesus. This isn’t funny, Jude.

Do you? she says.

I touch myself. This level of public intimacy is like waking up covered in sweat.

Well? she says.

Like a dead bird, I say.

Jude sighs. Maybe you should consider therapy.

Maybe.

Are you going to shoot the old man? she says.

He’s not a molester, I say.

There’s no way of knowing that, she says. Maybe the wife knows.

The old woman begins to weep. Jude folds her arms across her chest and stares at me.

And if I say no?

Then I might just kiss you goodbye, she says. You could find yourself walking out of here with the clothes you are wearing, a pack of cigarettes and a gun. I imagine you are resourceful enough to find your way home.

I don’t have a home.

Jude sighs. It’s a figure of speech.

The old woman continues to weep. The sound is like that of a radio stuck between two stations. I look at the gun in my hand. I wouldn’t care to hitchhike back to Flagstaff. There is a lot of desert between here and there and the sun would be unfriendly. I could possibly carjack a tourist and rob a few convenience stores for cash and food. But I would most likely get shot by a kid with pimples and a plastic name-tag and besides, I just got here. I lift the gun. I touch it to Jude’s head, gently. The old man groans.

I want my money back, I say.

Jude yawns. What?

The money. I’m going to need it for incidentals.

Incidentals? she says.

Taxicabs, I say. Food and drink. More than one drink.

No, she says. I want this to be difficult for you.

Believe me. It hasn’t been easy so far.

Jude shrugs. She hits the emergency button and the elevator resumes its slow fall, stopping again on the fifth floor. The old man and his wife get off without a word. No one gets on. I slump against the wall with the gun in my hand. I am soaked with sweat.

Jude nods at the gun. You might want to put that away.

What was that shit about fireworks?

It’s a short story by Jim Thompson, she says. It’s about incest.

Outside and everything is pale and strange. I stand on the sidewalk, blinking. The gun is heavy in my pocket. It seems like forever ago, but Jude gave me two fat lines of coke before we left the room and my skull feels stretched thin. I breathe air that doesn’t stink of fear. Jude walks away and I’m not ready to follow just yet. Jeremy the doorman watches me, a withered smile on his face. He comes over and offers me a cigarette.

Thanks, I say.

Familiarity breeds contempt, he says. Am I right?

What?

Your wife there, he says. She’s pure hell on wheels, no shit. But sometimes a man needs a change of scenery.

I sigh, weary. She’s not my wife. And get the fuck away from me.

He shrugs and slips me a card. The Paradise, he says. You won’t recognize your own dick when you come out of there.

Jude is disappearing in the distance. I look at Jeremy. He smiles at me, as if he’s my buddy. My new pal. I can see the traffic and bobbing faces around us but there is an internal vacuum, an absence of noise. The sunlight is rosy. The sunlight is meaty, bloody. This is the moment before the gunfight in a movie. I tend to get squeamish in crowds but everyone is fluid, perfect. Everyone cruises along in his or her own bubble and I wonder if today is a holiday. I take the gun out of my pocket and Jeremy takes a step back. I try to imagine how his face would change if a bullet ripped through his abdomen.

I can’t see it, yet.

Jude pushes through the heavy glass doors of Nieman Marcus. I follow her and regret it immediately. The ceiling is fifty feet above the floor and composed of elaborate gold and white stained glass, like the roof of a cathedral. I tell myself not to look up again, unless I want to vomit in public.

These posh fucking stores.

They always have a grinning torturer standing just inside the doors, a guy whose job it is to greet you with white teeth and cool, appraising eyes. I am about to dodge away from him but Jude gives him a mercurial nod and he just melts away. She glides to the first exhibit and pretends to examine an array of hairy sweaters. I come up behind her, breathing like a pervert. I violate her space.

Dead cats, I say. They look like dead cats.

Jude doesn’t look at me, she doesn’t even tilt her head.

Keep walking, she says. Pretend you don’t know me and whatever you do, do not call me Jude.

What should I call you?

I’m going to count to three, says Jude.

I touch her shoulder and she spins around.

You will fucking talk to me, I say.

She smiles, harshly. What’s the matter?

Everything, I say. Why did you run that scene in the elevator?

Instinct, she says. It felt right.

What was it about them?

You saw that woman, didn’t you? Her face, her plastic fucking face. She went under the knife for him because she wasn’t pretty anymore.

Jesus, I whisper. That was about your face?

Keep walking, she says. Pretend you don’t know me or I will start screaming.

I try to be cool. I try not to blink but I have a bad mixture of junk and fear and confusion in me. I try to imagine how Jude feels, how it would feel to be a woman raped and mutilated. She is still stupidly beautiful, to my mind. Men and women alike still turn to look at her on the street, but that curved white scar above her eyes may be the only thing she sees when she looks in the mirror. Try as I might, though, I can’t feel what she feels. The bitter shame, the hatred of self. Irrational or not. My brain is heavy with bad water and my heart is actually chirping. I’ve got crickets in there. That coke she gave me was some kind of uncut Bolivian rock, nasty stuff. I don’t know where her money is coming from but she apparently has plenty of it.