“We’re not talking about money,” Rabbit said. “She loves me.”

“If you’re talking about Clea, you’re talking about money. It’s all she cares about.”

“She cares about her art,” Ronald said.

“Her art? That’s what she calls one cult movie and two porn flicks? Art?”

“No,” Ronald said, looking confused. “Her art. That’s how I met her, at her family’s art museum when I was helping value her late husband’s collection.”

“Late husband?” Davy laughed. “Imagine my surprise. Rabbit, her family doesn’t have an art museum, and she turned to you when she found out you had access to my accounts. What’d the last guy die of?” He held up a fry. “No, wait, let me guess. Heart attack.”

“It was very sudden,” Ronald said.

“Yeah, it always is with Clea’s husbands,” Davy said. “Word of advice: don’t marry her. She looks really good in black.”

Ronald stuck out what little chin he had. “She said you’d speak badly of her. She said you’d threatened her, and that you’d spread lies about her past. You lie for a living, Davy, why should I believe-”

Davy shook his head. “I don’t have to lie on this one. The truth is grim enough. Look, if you want to commit suicide, dying in Clea’s bed is as good a way to go as any, but first I need my money back. I don’t like being poor. It limits my scope.”

“I don’t have it,” Ronald said, looking affronted. “I returned it to its rightful owner.”

Davy sat back and looked at him with pity laced with exasperation. “You already gave it to her. So when was the last time you saw her?”

Ronald flushed. “Four days ago. She’s very busy.”

“You gave her the money as soon as you got it, and then she got busy.”

“No,” Ronald said. “She’s collecting, too. It’s part of our plan, to build a collection-”