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don’t pay attention. She’s got car phones, gloves, cigarettes, even the change from the ashtray, anything she sees in a car’s not nailed down, she takes it.”
    â€œAlice?”
    â€œMmm. Yeah. So Rosalinda, she says, You go do him. Tell him I sent you.”
    â€œAnd you did?”
    â€œRight.”
    â€œWhen was that?”
    Chi Chi shrugged, pulled out a cigarette, lit it, cupping the match in one big hand.
    â€œAnd what about the night she was killed? Had you done him that night?”
    She shook her head. “No way. Only when she tol’ me to. And after.”
    â€œAfter she’d died?”
    â€œYeah. After that.”
    For normal people, people who were asleep, it was still Friday night. But technically it was Saturday, so Florent would be open. They closed at five A . M . during the week, but on weekends they didn’t close at all. You wanted rillettes at four in the morning, salad Niçoise at five, you knew where to go. We took a table in the front corner, sent the dogs under it, and ordered soup, holding our hands around the bowls when they came.
    When the waiter began to back away, Chi Chi grabbed his sleeve.
    â€œNow I need a burger, honey.”
    His skin was a light reddish brown, his long dreadlocks pulled back in a ponytail.
    â€œRare. With fries.”
    He nodded, his face saying, What the fuck do I care what she orders. Burger, fries. He heard it a hundred times on every shift. How enthusiastic could he be, a New York waiter? Especially since none of them were actually waiters. They were all supporting their art, waiting on tables while they waited for a big break, star opposite Julia, get a long run on The Sopranos , go from nowhere straight to the top.
    â€œAnd don’t be stingy,” Chi Chi said, “you hear? I’m starved.”
    He turned to leave.
    Chi Chi grabbed his sleeve again.
    â€œAnd a rum and Coke,” she said. “Soon as you get a chance.” She watched him walk away.
    â€œCute butt,” she told me, one hand over her mouth.
    Despite her flirtatiousness with the waiter, in the harsh light of the little bistro, Chi Chi looked defeated. Or sour. Maybe both. I could see how rough her skin was under the thick pancake makeup, but I couldn’t see the shadow of a beard. Apparently one of the things she’d used all that money on was hair removal, a pretty normal business expense for transvestite hookers.
    â€œSo what’s the rest of his name, this Vinnie person?”
    Chi Chi shrugged. Then she excused herself to go to the bathroom. I ate some soup and looked around. When she came around the corner from the john, way in the back of the long, narrow room, I could tell immediately that something was different. She bounced toward me, stopping at three other tables to chat, bending over and whispering at one, tossing her head way back and laughing at another, sitting on an empty chair and picking up a handful of some woman’s fries at the third, feeding it to her boyfriend. I was pretty sure when she landed in her own seat across from me, Chi Chi wouldn’t be looking sour any longer.
    â€œWe don’t use last names, and neither do they,” she said, as if I’d asked her Vinnie’s last name seconds rather than minutes ago. She picked up her spoon, looked at the soup, then pushed the bowl across the small table. The rum and Coke came, and Chi Chi began to drink, holding it even when she put it back on the table, tapping her nails nervously against the sweating glass.
    â€œI’m going to need to get in there, to see if I can find anything connecting the two murders,” I said.
    â€œWhat? Into Keller’s?”
    I nodded.
    â€œNo problem. You can take my place tomorrow.”
    I raised a hand in protest, but Chi Chi took my hand in hers with a surprising tenderness, bringing it down to the table. She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “He’s not attached, ” she