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All the strippers wanted to be rock singers or actors and figured they needed stage names. Except Pris, Roscoe thought, the only one who could make something of herself uses her real name . At two, Cassandra clocked in.
    “What’s with the cute guy across the street?” she asked.
    Roscoe stood. If a guy came into the Hollywood, paid his cover charge, bought a few beers and tipped the girls, then it was all right if he hassled them, as long as it stayed friendly and no one got touched. But a nut hanging around outside could be dangerous. He cracked his knuckles, put on his sunglasses, and headed for the door.
    “Watch the bar,” he told Misty.
    “Don’t be long,” Misty said, “I’m a dancer, not a bartender.” Roscoe grunted as he stepped through the door. “And don’t hurt him too bad!”
    After fifteen minutes, Misty told herself Roscoe was just doing a thorough job. After an hour she reasoned that Roscoe had gone to lunch. After two hours she was angry. The afternoon crowd was coming in, and she was a dancer, an artist, damn it. Roscoe had no right to make her wait tables. She threw down her bar rag and marched across the street to the sidewalk beneath Duncan’s window.
    “Hey Roscoe,” she called, “get your fat ass down here!”
    “Don’t move, Roscoe!” a male voice commanded.
    Misty’s hand flew to her mouth. Roscoe was not so big a bullet could not slow him down considerably. When Roscoe did not come to the window, Misty ran across the street and called 911. No one answered their knock, so the two policemen who answered her call drew their guns, pushed Duncan’s door open, and cautiously stepped inside.
    Roscoe sat in a torn leather chair, tattoos running like jackals across his naked chest. He stroked an orange cat on his lap with one hand and held an empty beer in the other. Duncan stood across the room before a canvas propped on an easel, his Stetson atop his head, a brush in one hand and a pallet in the other, furiously painting. Roscoe saw the police first.
    “Hey, mothers,” he said, “you got a warrant?”
    The police holstered their guns, apologized, and left. Misty burst into the room.
    “You scared me half to death, you goddamn ape!”
    “Duncan,” Roscoe said, “this is Misty.”
    Duncan smiled and nodded. “It’s a pleasure, ma’am.”
    “We kind of already met,” Misty said. She took the cat from Roscoe’s lap. “What’s his name?”
    “He doesn’t have one yet.”
    “A cat needs a name.”
    “Well,” Duncan said, “I’ve just been calling him Cat.”
    “That’s silly.”
    “Take a break, Roscoe,” he said. “I’ll get you a fresh beer.”
    The room smelled of paint and Lysol. Books and a stereo were stacked by a wall near a box of clothes. A brush sat on a paint can in the corner. A sleeping bag was laid out on the couch. Misty noticed there was no bed. She touched a wall. Her finger came back white and tacky. She went to Duncan’s easel. The Roscoe in the unfinished painting looked cuddly. She frowned. Normally, something in Roscoe’s eyes made you suspect that, given the choice, he would prefer to rip your lips off than kiss them, though she could not remember Roscoe ever trying to do either to anyone. Yet the eyes staring out of the painting were virtually gentle. Duncan returned with three beers. Misty reached for one but Roscoe waved her back.
    “No thanks bro,” he said as he put on his shirt. “We got to get back.”
    “Hey!” Misty said, “speak for yourself.”
    “I’ll speak for us both. You got work to do.”
    “Thanks for explaining,” Duncan said. “I won’t bother the girls anymore.”
    “Screw ‘em,” Roscoe said, “they can take care of themselves.”
    “Nice meeting you, Misty.”
    “Nice meeting you.”
    She followed Roscoe across the street. She stopped at the door and looked up at Duncan’s window. The orange cat sat on the sill licking a paw. Duncan moved the easel and canvas close to the window and pushed his hat