SHE WALKED beside me to the Plymouth. I unlocked the passenger door for her. As she swung her hips into the front seat I slipped the airline bag off her shoulder. She didn't react. I closed the door behind her, walked around behind the car, unzipping the bag, rooting through it with my hand. Nothing in there that could hurt you unless you swallowed it.

I climbed inside, handed her the bag. She put it on the floor, groped inside, came out with a cigarette.

"Can I have a light?" Her voice was soft, like she was asking me for something else.

I fired a wooden match, held it out to her. She wrapped both hands around mine, lit the smoke, eyes on me. "Your hand feels strong."

I wheeled the car down Flatbush Avenue, heading for the Manhattan Bridge. Turned right on the Bowery, heading uptown.

"My mother sent you?"

"That's right, Elvira."

"Nobody calls me that."

"What do they call you?"

"Juice," she said, flashing a smile. "You think that's dumb?"

"Kids have funny names."

"I'm not a kid."

"Fifteen, your mother said."

"My mother is a liar. She always lies."

I shrugged.

"What if I don't want to go back?"

"Talk to her about it."

"I'm talking to you."

"You're talking to yourself."

I pulled up at a red light on First Avenue. She snapped her lighted cigarette at me and ripped at the door handle, shoving her shoulder against the passenger door. It didn't budge. I picked her cigarette off the seat, tossed it out my window. She pushed her back against the car door, watching me, breathing hard through her mouth.

"You think you're smart- you're not so smart."

"Just relax."

"Will you talk to me?"

"About what?"

"Just talk to me. I'm not a package. Not something you just deliver."

"Yeah you are."

"Look, you can keep me in this car, okay? But you have to bring me in the house too."

"I can do that."

"Oh yes. You're a hard man. Momma only likes hard men."

"It's just a job."

Streets passed. Her breathing got calm again. "Can I have another smoke?"

"Sure." I handed her the little box of wooden matches.

"You don't trust me?"

"Why would I?"

"Because I'm not like my mother. I never lie. Never, ever. If I tell you I'll do something, I'll do it."

"And so you're telling me what?"

She drew on the smoke. "I'm telling you I want to talk to you. Just for a couple of minutes. Pull the car over…anyplace you want…just talk to me. Then when we get to my mother's, I'll walk in with you just like I was supposed to. No trouble, no screaming, nothing. Okay?"

I made a right turn on Twenty-third, found an empty slot facing the river under the East Side Drive. An abandoned car, stripped to its shell, was on my right, empty space on the left. I slid down my window, killed the ignition. Lit a smoke. "Let's talk," I said to the girl.

Her smile flashed again, knocking the pout off her face. "What's your name?"

"Burke."

"Are you my mother's man?"

"No."

She shrugged out of the denim jacket, arching her back so her breasts poked at the T-shirt. "Is this what you do?"

"What?"

"Deliver packages."

"Sometimes."

"You like it?"

"It's work."

"But do you like it?"

"If I liked it, people wouldn't have to pay me to do it."

"Sometimes you get paid for what you like to do. Like a whore who loves to fuck."

I shrugged. I had never met one.

She took a drag on her cigarette. Handed it to me. I tossed it out my window.

"It's real dark here."

"You're all done talking, we can leave."

"You want me to shut up?"

"It doesn't matter. We have a deal, right? We talk, then I take you home."

"You mean you take me to my mother's."

"Whatever."

"If you wanted me to shut up, you know the best way to do it?"

"No."

"You put something in my mouth. You want to put something in my mouth?" Her voice was bad-little-girl teasing. She knew how to do it.

"No."

"Yes you do. I can feel it." Her hand snaked toward my lap in the darkness.

I grabbed her wrist.

"All done talking?"

"What's the matter, Mr. Burke? You never went back to your girlfriend with lipstick on your cock before?"

"Lipstick, yeah," I told her. "Not bubble gum."

"I'm old enough."

"Not for me.

The car was quiet for a couple of minutes. "I'm done talking," she said, her voice soft and flat.

She didn't say another word until I pulled up outside Candy's apartment building.

"This is it," I said.

"I know."

"DOES THE DOORMAN know you?" I asked her.

"Sure."

He waved us in as soon as he saw her face. Never looked at mine. She was quiet in the elevator.

The door swung open before I had the button depressed enough to ring the bell. Candy.

"Come in here," she said to the girl, not looking at me.

Elvira walked past her to the couch, dropping her bag on the floor like the maid would get it in the morning.

Candy walked over to me, reached up and put her hands on my shoulders. "Thanks, baby," she stage-whispered. The girl was sitting on the couch, watching her mother's back. Waiting for the truth.

I gave it to her. "Where's the money?"

Her fingers bit into the top of my shoulders, eyes lashed at me. I waited.

She whirled, heels tapping on the parquet floor. Elvira put her fingers to her chin, like she was considering something important. Her mother came back into the living room, stopped two feet in front of me. Handed me an envelope. I put it into my coat.

I heard the door click closed behind me.

I GOT BACK into the Plymouth, started the engine. Lit a smoke. The door opened and Max slid inside. I handed him Candy's envelope, pulled out into traffic.

He tapped my shoulder. Holding a slab of cash in each hand. Nodded. All there. He put one hand in his pocket, the other in mine. We'd split the front money too.

I spun my finger in a circle, tapped the back of my neck. Anybody follow us?

The blunt-faced Mongol tapped one eye. Shook his head no. But then he shuddered his shoulders like he got a chill. Something. Something you couldn't see.

I checked the rearview mirror, moving through traffic. Max didn't spook at shadows. I pointed north. He nodded. Anyone following us to the junkyard would stick out like a beer drinker at a Jim Jones picnic.

We crossed the Triboro, turned into the jungle. Nothing behind us. I whipped the Plymouth into a tight U-turn, pointed back the way we came. Max lit a smoke for himself, one for me.

Half an hour later it was still quiet. The cops don't have that much patience. I took another route back downtown, dropped Max off near the warehouse, and headed back to the office.

Pansy was glad to see me.