She leaned over to her bed-table and sorted through the mess, coming up with a tumbler with something sticky and green in the bottom: absinthe or creme de menthe. She held the glass out to him. The wine he poured into it became tainted with the remnants of liqueur.

"So, who's the chick?"

I loathe being called a chick.

Bobby laughed. "Oh God, I'm sorry. This is Kinsey. She's the private detective I told you about."

"I should've figured as much," Her eyes came back to mine, her pupils so dilated I couldn't tell what color the irises were. "So how do you like our little sideshow? Bobby and I are the family freaks. What a pair, right?"

This child was getting on my nerves. She wasn't smart enough or quick enough to pull off the tough air she was affecting, and the strain was evident, like watching a stand-up comic with second-rate gags,

Bobby cut in smoothly. "Dr. Kleinert's downstairs."

"Ah, Dr. Destructo. What did you think of him?" She took a drag of her cigarette, feigning nonchalance, but I sensed that she was genuinely curious about my response.

"I didn't talk to him," I said. "Bobby wanted me to meet you first."

She stared at me and I stared back. I remembered doing this sort of stuff in sixth grade with my mortal enemy, Tommy Jancko. I forget now why we disliked each other, but stare contests were definitely the weapons of choice.

She looked back at Bobby. "He wants me hospitalized. D'l tell you that?"

"You going?"

"Hey, no twit/! Get all those needles stuck in me? Uh-un, no thanks. I'm not interested." She swung her long legs over the side of the bed and got up. She crossed the room to a low dressing table with a gilt-edged mirror above it. She studied her face, glancing back at me. "You think I look thin?"

"Very."

"Really?" She seemed fascinated by the notion, turning slightly so she could see her own flat behind. She studied her face again, watching herself take a drag of her cigarette. She did a quick shrug. Everything looked fine to her.