"Oh, I know Professor Hickman," she said. "At least, I thought I did."

"Can't miss him," the boy replied. "Small guy, wavy hair, can't decide whether he wants to be Al Pacino or Rudolf Nureyev when he grows up." And he grinned.

Was he talking about Tom? She'd never looked at her husband in that light before, but after a moment's thought she could see the boy's point. Tom was tort, about five eight, and his hair was dark and wavy. He was in great physical condition, a tight, trim body, and he moved like a dancer. Or a street angel, maybe? It took a little time for it all to sink into Joanne's head, but when she had it straight, she laughed, and, God, it felt great to be laughing! Not long ago she had thought she might never laugh again.

"I sort of know him," she said. "I used to fuck him, if you want to know the grubby details."

"Oh," the boy told her, nodding, making a delightful mouth at Joanne. "Pre-Alice Custer, right?"

God Christ! Even this boy, this child, knew about it! Joanne sat up straight and she almost frowned and told him to go fuck himself, but what he'd said, sank in. Alice Custer. Was that the name of the girl she'd listened to? The one Tom had only just finished fucking in his office, the one who called him Tommy baby and was Miss Honeybun in return, the one he'd said he loved?

"Yes," Joanne said, raising her voice a little, "that's the cunt who edged me out. I don't know what she has, but that motherfucker…"

"Cool it," the bartender said, coming down the counter to where Joanne was sitting. "This is a nice place and I don't like people using that kind of language. It sounds like shit, especially coming from a drunk broad."