"You don't know him," Debbie said, "he's a world-class bullshitter.

I believed him, didn't I? And I make a living looking for fraud."

"I didn't mean to upset you."

"I'm not upset, I'm still pissed, that's all." She looked over at a table where a child was crying, brought her gaze back and her expression was calm, a cool look in those blue eyes. "Have you been to the restaurant?"

"Only for a drink. It looks like a men's club. You see tables of business suits, out-of-towners, guys calling on the car companies."

Fran paused. "I'm told you might see bimbo-type ladies there in the evening."

"It's a pickup bar?"

"Not the kind you're thinking of. I'm told the ladies are pros, highclass call girls."

"Imagine," Debbie said, "your purpose in life is to give blow jobs to auto execs. I'll have to drop by when I get my release, say hi to Randy. I always knew he was a pimp."

"You realize," Fran said, "I hesitated telling you."

"Don't worry, I won't do anything dumb."

"Now that you know what it's like in here. You're out next week, start with a clean slate… Which reminds me, my brother should be home soon, from Africa."

"That's right, the priest."

"If" he hasn't gone native on me. He writes a letter, it's about the weather. Or what the place smells like."

"He's due for a vacation?"

"First one in five years. There's still that tax fraud indictment hanging over him. We have to get that cleared up."

"What'd he do, cheat on his income tax?"

"I thought I told you about it."

"You didn't tell me about the restaurant, either."