“I’m sure you do.”

“Will those people actually go to jail?”

“I think most of them will. How can I help you today?”

“Actually I’m hoping that I can help you,” Robbins said. “do you remember telling me to call you if I remembered anything else? About the woman in the dark glasses and red scarf, I mean.”

“Yes,” Norman said. His voice was still calm and friendly, but the hand not holding the phone had rolled into a tight fist again, and the nails were digging, digging.

“Well, I didn’t think I would, but something came to me this morning while I was in the shower. I’ve been thinking about it all day, and I’m sure I’m right. She really did say it that way.” “say what what way?” he asked. His voice was still reasonable, calm-pleasant, even-but now blood was brightly visible in the creases of his closed fist. Norman opened one of the drawers of his empty desk and hung the fist over it. A little baptism on behalf of the next man to use this shitty little closet.

“You see, she didn’t tell me where she wanted to go; I told her. That’s probably why I couldn’t remember when you asked me, Inspector Daniels, although my head for that sort of thing is usually quite good.”

“I’m not getting you.”

“People buying tickets usually give you their destination,” Robbins said.

“

“Give me a round trip to Nashville,” or

“One way to Lansing, please.” Follow me?”

“Yes.”

“This woman didn’t do it that way. She didn’t say the name of the place; she said the time she wanted to go. That’s what I remembered this morning in the shower. She said, “I want to buy a ticket on the eleven-oh-five bus. Are there still some seats on that one?” As if the place she was going didn’t matter, as if it only mattered that-”

“-that she go as quick as she could and get as far away as she could!” Norman exclaimed.

“Yes! Yes, of course! Thanks, Mr Robbins!”

“I’m glad I could help.” Robbins sounded a bit taken aback by the burst of emotion from the other end of the line.

“This woman, you guys must really want her.”

“We do,” Norman said. He was once more smiling the smile which had always chilled Rosie’s skin and made her want to back up against a wall to protect her kidneys.

“You bet we do. That eleven-oh-five bus, Mr Robbins-where does it go?” Robbins told him, then asked:

“Was she part of the crack-ring? The woman you’re looking for?”

“No, it’s a credit-card scam,” Norman said, and Robbins started to reply to that-he was apparently ready to settle into a comfy little chat-but Norman dropped the phone back into the cradle, cutting him off in mid-rap. He put his feet up on the desk again. Finding a dolly and moving his crap could wait. He leaned back in the desk chair and looked at the ceiling.

“A credit-card scam, you bet,” he said.

“But you know what they say about the long arm of the law.” He reached out with his left hand and opened his fist, exposing the blood-smeared palm. He flexed the fingers, which were also bloody.

“Long arm of the law, bitch,” he said, and suddenly began to laugh.

“Long fucking arm of the law, coming for you. You best believe it.” He kept flexing his fingers, watching small drops of blood patter down to the surface of his desk, not caring, laughing, feeling fine. Things were back on track again.

When she got back to D amp; S, Rosie found Pam sitting in a folding chair in the basement rec room. She had a paperback in her lap, but she was watching Gert Kinshaw and a skinny little thing who had come in about ten days before-Cynthia something. Cynthia had a gaudy punk hairdo-half green, half orange-and looked as if she might weigh all of ninety pounds. There was a bulky bandage over her left ear, which her boyfriend had tried, with a fair amount of success, to tear off. She was wearing a tank-top with Peter Tosh at the center of a swirling blue-green psychedelic sunburst. NOT GONNA GIVE IT UP! the shirt proclaimed. Every time she moved, the oversized armholes of the shirt disclosed her teacup-sized breasts and small strawberry-colored nipples. She was panting and her face streamed with sweat, but she looked almost daffily pleased to be where she was and who she was. Gert Kinshaw was as different from Cynthia as dark from day. Rosie had never gotten it completely clear in her mind if Gert was a counsellor, a long-time resident of D amp; S, or just a friend of the court, so to speak. She showed up, stayed a few days, and then disappeared again. She often sat in the circle during therapy sessions (these ran twice a day at D amp; S, with attendance at four a week a mandatory condition for residents), but Rosie had never heard her say anything. She was tall, six feet one at least, and big-her shoulders were wide and soft and dark brown, her breasts the size of melons, and her belly a large, pendulous pod that pooched out her size XXXL tee-shirts and hung over the sweatpants she always wore. Her hair was a jumble of frizzy braids (it was very kinky). She looked so much like one of those women you saw sitting in the laundromat, eating Twinkies and reading the latest issue of the National Enquirer, that it was easy to miss the hard flex of her biceps, the toned look of her thighs under the old gray sweatpants, and the way her big ass did not jiggle when she walked. The only time Rosie ever heard her talk much was during these rec-room seminars. Gert taught the fine art of self-defense to any and all D amp; S residents who wanted to learn. Rosie had taken a few lessons herself, and still tried to practice what Gert called Six Great Ways to Fuck Up an Asshole at least once a day. She wasn’t very good at them, and couldn’t imagine actually trying them on a real man-the guy with the David Crosby moustache leaning in the doorway of The Wee Nip, for instance-but she liked Gert. She particularly liked the way Gert’s broad dark face changed when she was teaching, breaking out of its customary claylike immobility and taking on animation and intelligence. Becoming pretty, in fact. Rosie had once asked her what, exactly, she was teaching-was it tae kwon do, or jujitsu, or karate? Some other discipline, perhaps? Gert had just shrugged.

“A little of this and a little of that,” she had said.

“Leftovers.” Now the Ping-Pong table had been moved aside and the middle of the rec-room floor had been covered with gray mats. Eight or nine folding chairs had been set up along one pine-panelled wall, between the ancient stereo and the prehistoric color TV, where everything looked either pale green or pale pink. The only chair currently occupied was the one Pam was sitting on. With her book in her lap, her hair tied back with a piece of blue yarn, and her knees primly together, she looked like a wallflower at a high-school dance. Rosie sat down next to her, propping her wrapped picture against her shins. Gert, easily two hundred and seventy pounds, and Cynthia, who probably could have tipped the scales over a hundred only by wearing Georgia Giants and a fully loaded backpack, circled each other. Cynthia was panting and smiling hugely. Gert was calm and silent, slightly bent at her nonwaist, her arms held out in front of her. Rosie looked at them, both amused and uneasy. It was like watching a squirrel, or maybe a chipmunk, stalk a bear.

“I was getting worried about you,” Pam said.

“The thought of a search-party had crossed my mind, actually.”

“I had the most amazing afternoon. How “bout you, though? How you feeling?”

“Better. In my opinion, Midol is the answer to all the world’s problems. Never mind that, what happened to you? You’re glowing!” “really?” “really. So give. How come?”

“Well, let’s see,” Rosie said. She began to tick things off on her fingers.

“I found out my engagement ring was a fake, I swapped it for a picture-I’m going to hang it in my new place when I get it-I got offered a job…”