"How sad." The Chinaman broke the skewer with his teeth, began chewing the wood, swallowing it.

Charlie stared at him. "Want some dinner? On me."

"Nah, already had some. On you." The Chinaman smiled, pulled eight more skewers out of his pocket, and let them drop to the dirt. He stretched and yawned again, cracked giant knuckles. More than a cat, Charlie decided. Fucking slant-eyed tiger, he should be caged.

"So," said the detective, "business stinks. What a pity.

Who knows, you might have to turn to honest labor." He'd been hearing the same tales of woe from other pimps and dealers. Since the papers had started pumping the Butcher story, there'd been a fifty percent slowdown on the Green Line. worse in the small pockets of iniquity that peppered the Muslim Quarter-sin-holes deep within the core of the Old City surrounded by a maze of narrow, dead-black streets, nameless alleys that went nowhere. You had to want something very badly to go there. The hint of a scare and the places shut down completely. All the whores were kicking about working with strangers, girls on the border staying off the streets, opting, temporarily, for the comforts of hearth and home. The pimps expending more effort to keep them in line. receiving less reward for their efforts.

"Everything stinks," said Charlie, lighting a cigarette. "I should move to America-got a cousin in New York, drives

"Do it. I'll pay for your ticket."

The big screen TV was turned up loud; from behind the flaps came the sound of squealing tires.

"What's on tonight?"

"French Connection."

"Old," said the Chinaman. "Got to be… what? Fifteen, twenty years old?"

"A classic, Lee. They love the car chases."

"Then how come so few of them are watching? Your man behind the bar told me you had a newer one scheduled. Friday the Thirteenth, lots of knives and blood."

"Wrong time, wrong place," said Charlie, looking miserable.

"A temporary attack of good taste?" The Chinaman smiled. "Cheer up. It'll pass. Tell me, Rabbi Khazak, what do you know about a whore named Amira Nasser?"

"She the latest?"

"Just answer."

"Brunette, cute, big tits."

"I thought she was a redhead."

Charlie thought for a moment. "Maybe. Yeah, I've seen her with red hair-but that's a wig. Her natural color is dark."

"Does she usually go dark or red?"

"She takes turns. I've seen her as a blonde too."

"When did you last see her?"

"Maybe three weeks ago."

"Who runs her?"

"Whoever wants to-she's an idiot."

The Chinaman sensed that he meant it literally. "Retarded?"

"Or close to it. It's not obvious-she looks fine, very! adorable. But talk to her and you can see there's nothing] upstairs."

"Does she make up stories?"

"I don't know her that well, Lee. She connected to thej Butcher?"

The Butcher. Fucking press.

"Little Hook says he'd been running her."

"Little Hook says all sorts of shit."

"Could he be?"

"Sure. I told you she's an idiot."

"Where does she come from?"

"Hell if I know."

The Chinaman placed a hand on Charlie's shoulder.

"Where's she from, Charlie?"

"Go ahead, beat me, Lee," said Charlie wearily. "Why the hell would I hold back? I want this thing cleared up more than you do."

The Chinaman took hold of Charlie's shirt, rubbed the synthetic fabric between his thumb and forefinger, half expecting it to throw off sparks. When he spoke, his voice was knotted with tension.

"I doubt that, asshole."

"I didn't mean-" Charlie sputtered, but the big man released him and walked away, heading back toward the Damascus Gate in a long, loose, predator's stride.

"What's so interesting down there?" the girl called from bed.

"The view," said Avi. "There's a beautiful moon out tonight." But he didn't invite her to share it.

He wore skintight red briefs and nothing else, stood on the balcony and stretched, knowing he looked great.

"Come on in, Avraham," said the girl, in her best sultry voice. She sat up, let the covers fall to her waist. Put a hand under each healthy breast and said, "The babies are waiting."

Avi ignored her, took another look across the courtyard at the ground-floor apartment. Malkovsky had gone in three hours ago. It was doubtful he'd be out again. But something kept drawing him back to the balcony, making him think magically, the way he had as a child: An explosion would occur the moment he withdrew his attention.

'Av-ra-ham!"

Spoiled kid. Why was she rushing? He'd already satisfied her twice.

The door to the apartment remained closed. The

Malkovskys had finished their meal by eight, singing Shabbat songs,in an off-key chorus. Fat Sender had come waddling but once at eight-thirty, loosening his belt. For a moment Avi thought he was going to see something, but the big pig had simply eaten too much, needed air, a few extra centimeters around the waist. Now it was eleven-he was probably in bed, maybe mauling his wife, maybe worse. But in for the night.

Still, it was nice out on the balcony.

"Avi, if you don't come here real soon, I'm going to sleep!"

He waited a few moments, just to make sure she knew she couldn't push him around. Gave one last look at the apartment and walked inside.

"Okay, honey," he said, standing at the side of the bed. He put his hands on his hips and showed off his body. "Ready."

She pouted, folded her arms across her chest, the breast tops swelling with sweet promise. "Well, I don't know if I am."