"Some, mostly men."

"They hit on you?"

"I didn't have any trouble. But it was going on, yeah, some of the girls doing it for favors, preferential treatment."

Johnny said, "There's one over at the bar, the redhead? I wouldn't mind her doing me a favor."

"If you like whores," Debbie said.

"Come on-"

"Go ask her."

Johnny looked past Debbie to Terry. "You think she's a whoer?"

Debbie said, "What're you asking a priest for? How would he know?"

"Well, how do you know?"

"I heard there were call girls here, and that redhead is my idea of a chick who does it for money."

Johnny said, "I'm gonna go check."

They watched him walk over to the bar buttoning his jacket, touching the collar to make sure it was up and his ponytail hooked over it. They saw the woman turn as he reached her and cock her head to one side to adjust her earring. They saw Johnny ready to take the empty stool next to her. The woman said something to him and now Johnny was talking, gesturing, laying his hand on her shoulder.

They saw the guy with the crew cut coming along the bar.

They watched him walk up to Johnny-both about the same height, but Johnny lacking the guy's solid build and say something to him. Johnny shrugged, gestured with his hands, nodded as he looked this way, toward the booth.

Debbie said, "What's he doing, inviting them over?"

No, Johnny was coming back alone. Sliding into the booth he said,

"That bouncer, he walks up, he goes, 'Angie, this guy bothering you?'

She says to me, 'This is my husband,' the fuckin bouncer. You believe it?"

Debbie was still looking at the redhead and the guy with the crew cut. "He's her pimp, you dummy."

Now Johnny was looking over. "Oh, he is? You ever see a pimp dresses like that?"

"What'd you say to him?"

"I told him I was with a priest, so he wouldn't get the wrong idea.

The guy has scar tissue up here, over his eyes."

Terry said, "He must've got hit a lot."

Now Debbie was asking Johnny about the green outfit the girl at the bar was wearing and what her earrings were like. Terry's gaze wandered off…

Came to a man who reminded him of his uncle and saw Tibor sitting there in a checked sport coat, a young lady with him, their waiter pouring red wine. No, it wasn't Tibor. Tibor's drink was bourbon, Early Times, managing somehow to buy it or have it shipped to him, Kentucky bourbon in Rwanda, and always had a supply. Tibor would sip it through crushed ice packed in the glass, a little sugar sprinkled on top. For his sweet tooth, because he couldn't find chocolate candy that he liked. A half-dozen bottles left when he died. Early Times in a wooden case with words in Kinyarwanda stenciled on the side.

Terry drank three of the bottles during the first year, different times when he ran out of Johnnie Walker and didn't feel like driving all the way to Kigali. Bourbon was okay, it did the job. But Johnnie Walker red was his favorite because he admired the look of the square bottle with its smooth, rounded edges and neat red label, seeing it as a work of art sitting on the old wooden table, a warm, amber glow in the last light of day. The black label, more expensive, looked almost as good.

There was a bottle in the kitchen, up in a cupboard, saved for a special occasion that never came. He would bet anything Chantelle had sold the leftover fifths of Early Times by now. Unless she tried the whiskey and liked it. She would weave when she was high, walking to the house, but still with grace, her hips moving in the t, agne that fell to her ankles. Her voice would change, too, become higher and inquiring, a hint of irritation asking him to explain what she didn't understand.

And in the dark under the netting she would rest her stump on his chest and he would cover it with his hand.

Johnny had his hand in the air to bring the Maitre d' over.

"Yes?"

"You see what time it is? Going on eleven."

Carlo waited.

"Where're these people suppose to have a reservation?"

"When they come in," Carlo said, "you will be the first to know."

Debbie said, "We'd like another round and we'll order."

"Of course."

"Wait. Is Randy here?"

Carlo turned, looked over the room and came back to them. "I don't believe so. You wish to speak to him?"

"Maybe," Debbie said, "I'm not sure."

"May I give Mr. Agley your name?"

"You just said he isn't here."

"So I can tell him when he comes."

Johnny said, "Tell him Fr. Dunn wants to hear his confession."

Debbie shook her head. "I'll let you know." Carlo walked off and she put her hand on Terry's arm. "I was thinking I might talk to him first, before we get into it with him. You know, see what he's like now."

"What was the last thing he said to you, 'Don't fuck with me'?"

"'Don't fuck with me, kid.' That was the second to last thing he said. His last words were 'You're not in my league.' But," Debbie said, "maybe he's changed. You know, now that he's got what he wants."

Terry said, "You told me he's a gangster now."

"Shit. I forgot. But he did like me, I know that. We had a pretty good time, at least at first."

"I bet he's here," Terry said. "You want to see him, go ahead."

She said, "Yeah, I'm gonna do it," and nudged Johnny with her elbow.

"Move, so I can get out." She said to Terry, "If the waitress comes I'll have the bluepoints, a house salad, the Coho salmon in the paper bag and another Stoli. I'll see you."

Johnny slipped back into the booth, picked up his menu and said,

"I'm gonna start with the jumbo shrimp cocktail. I like surf and turf but I don't see it here."

Cindy came by to take their orders and he asked her about it, how come no surf and turf? She said, "Sir, you can have anything you want."

"And you'll charge me anything you want, huh?"

Terry waited while they went around and around on what Johnny might like put together. When his turn came Terry gave her Debbie's order and said, "I'll have the same," keeping it simple, "but instead of the Johnnie Walker, lemme have a double bourbon this time over crushed ice. Early Times, if you have it."

DEBBIE STOOD JUST INSIDE THE office while Randy put on his act, looked up as she came in, got the right expressions in his eyes, pleasure in one, surprise in the other-she could hear herself delivering the line on stage--and he froze the look; next, he arched one eyebrow quizzically-the word that would come to mind when he used to do it. First, I must be seeing things. And then, Can I believe my eyes? Now he'll laugh this low chuckle and begin to shake his head.

He did that, audibilizing the eyebrow thing with "I can't believe it." Then serious, adlibbing, "God, but it's good to see you."

It was the last part that got to her. She didn't believe him, but so what? It still made her feel good. Gave her confidence a boost.

She watched Randy get up, come from around his desk and put his arms out toward her. Now she was supposed to rush into them. What she did was walk past him and sit down in the chair facing his desk.

And what Randy did, he stepped back until he was against the desk, raised his right leg and laid his thigh on the surface, his crotch aimed at Debbie, the bulge telling her he was still stuffing his Jockeys. When they were living together she caught him one time-they were getting ready for bed-pulling a pair of socks out of his undies and said, being stupid back then, "You're bad," and he cocked his head at her and winked. Well, not this time, you phony baloney, but then couldn't help saying, "You still think that works?" and could kick herself for letting him know she'd noticed.