He never knew the hooker's name, doubted that he could even find the flophouse, if it still existed. At this date, he probably couldn't figure out what week of the year it had been: the summer, sometime, everything hot and stinking, the smell of spoiled milk and rotting lettuce in sidewalk dumpsters…

"Didn't bother me," he had told Bekker, who pressed him. "It wasn't like… Shit, it wasn't like anything. Shut the bitch up, that's for sure."

"Did you hit her? In the face?" Bekker had been intent, the eyes of science. It was, Druze thought, the moment they had become friends. He remembered it with perfect clarity: the bar, the scent of cigarette smoke, four college kids on the other side of the aisle, sitting around a pizza, laughing at inanities… Bekker had worn an apricot-colored mohair sweater, a favorite, that framed his face.

"Bounced her off a wall, swinging her," Druze had said, wanting to impress. Another new feeling. "When she went down, I got on her back, got an arm around her neck, and jerk… that was it. Neck just went pop. Sounded like when you bite into a piece of gristle. I put my pants on, walked out the door…"

"Scared?"

"No. Not after I was out of the place. Something that simple… what're the cops going to do? You walk away. By the time you're down the block, they got no chance. And in that fuckin' place, they probably didn't even find her for two days, and only then 'cause of the heat. I wasn't scared, I was more like… hurried."

"That's something." Bekker's approval was like the rush Druze got from applause, but better, tighter, more concentrated. Only for him. He had gotten the impression that Bekker had a confession of his own but held it back. Instead the other man had asked, "You never did it again?"

"No. It's not like… I enjoy it."

Bekker had sat staring at him for a moment, then had smiled. "Hell of a story, Carlo."