‘Whatcha fink?’

Angie hated it when he spoke common. Jimmy asked:

‘Is it a ferret? Why did you hang a ferret up?’

Angie gave a small smile, said:

‘It’s a vixen.’

Ray could tell by her face that she was pleased. She gave him the full look, asked:

‘What’s the story, Ray?’

He was hoping she’d ask, had been working on his answer all night and now, oh so casual, as if he’d just thought of it, went:

“Cos you’re a fox.’

Angie kept a separate bedroom, said she couldn’t bear to actually sleep with a person. She’d service Ray and, no matter how he coaxed, she’d leave right after. That night she gave him a sensational blow job and, as he dozed off, she went to her own room. Climbing between the sheets — it was her favourite part of the day — she could be truly alone and dream of Florida and endless days of sun and clothes.

Mostly, she found people a drag; they whined on about money and about the weather and worse, politics. All such trivial shit. What she liked was to see how they reacted to pain. Ray was okay and she didn’t mind the sex. It amazed her that men would do just about anything for it. Jimmy meant as much to her as a dog she might pass in the street.

After she blew them off — and blow them she fully intended to do — she wouldn’t give them another thought. First, Jimmy would be sacrificed, then Ray. She might do something special for him, take him out in a painless way. He’d bought her that dumb painting and seemed to think that mangy fox was her. She played him along, kept him sweet as he was especially good on the phone. Had those cops doing somersaults. Under her pillow she kept a Browning automatic, primed and ready to lock and load. Before sleep took her, she wondered if she’d use a head or body shot on Ray. It interested her to see how the head would look if she put two into it at close range. Fuck him first then whip out the gun, say: