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quite figure out. “I could do that, you know, every day, twice a day. You know what I mean?” He looked up at Quinn confidently in the glassy bar-darkness. He turned his hand over, palm up. “But then where do I make a buck, you know?” His eyebrows twitched and he smiled. Quinn rubbed the beer glass around in his hands. He’d been digging up fitter’s work and he hadn’tthought anything about where Sonny was going to make a buck. “Sports is for kids, you know how that goes? Kids and niggers.” He bit at his lip. “Sweden, I could dex up, shave six to make spread, and waltz out loaded. But that’s not sports, Harry.” He looked up. “That’s business. I might as well be in the fucking record business. I’m getting old in this sports shit.” He looked innocent, as if he were the first human to apply the truth of the world to his own private case. In a week he was trunking lorazepam to Tijuana, and Quinn didn’t see much of him anymore, and in two months he and Rae had split east.
    Down the room, the other American, a skinny boy with a clean T-shirt that read “Try God,” was mumbling to the woman who had sunk down on her stool, letting the boy work her under the table with his foot. It seemed to interest Bernhardt.
    “I got a card from Kirsten today,” Sonny said and looked up respectfully. “She said if you were down here, Harry, she wasn’t going to worry about me. She thinks you’re smart because you were in Nam. You know?”
    “Great,” Quinn said. Kirsten had split when Sonny started muling. She had driven his Cadillac to the L.A. airport and flown to Uppsala and didn’t tell Sonny where his car was for a month, and Sonny couldn’t call the police because the trunk was full of lorazepam. She wasn’t stupid, and Sonny knew it. And he knew he was. And that was why he was staying so mad about it.
    “She’s a cunt, you know?” Sonny said. He still seemed glad.
    “You need anything else?” Quinn said. Enough time was by now for dress-up. He wanted outside. Sonny made him weak-stomached.
    “How’re the Tigers?” Sonny looked at both of them as if he wasn’t sure which one would answer. He seemed suddenly nervous, and squeezed his hands together harder. His breath smelled impure.
    “Read it.” Quinn shoved back the bag with the
Houston Chronicle
in it. Sonny’s breath was making his saliva ropy.
    Sonny began glancing at Bernhardt off and on. “I like the Tigers,”he said. Bernhardt was still interested in the whore and not paying strict attention. He was just along for the ride this time, a public appearance. “Look,” Sonny said indecisively. He stared back at Quinn. Sonny’s face was pathetic, and he suddenly exhaled a lot of bad air all at once. “There was a guy here today.” He kept staring at Quinn as if the words meant less if you didn’t acknowledge them.
    Bernhardt’s attention settled back onto Sonny’s face and he looked at Sonny oddly. Sonny opened his fingers deliberately on the tabletop and breathed in deeply.
    “What’s
that
mean?” Quinn said.
    “An L.A. guy,” Sonny said softly. He looked down. “It’s fucked up.”
    “What kind of fucked up?” Quinn said. It surprised him, but there was a sense he wasn’t hearing it right. He didn’t want to raise his voice, that wouldn’t be the way, except he wanted to hear it right. He felt muscles in his arm crawl.
    “What are you talking about?” Bernhardt said patiently.
    Sonny looked at Bernhardt, then back at his hands as if Bernhardt were talking about his hands. “They think I skimmed the stuff,” he said meekly.
    Quinn sat back on his stool and looked at the whore behind Sonny. He could see the backs of her calves where she had the stool straddled like a seesaw. Her toes were holding the concrete to keep the kid in the T-shirt from prying her off onto the floor. The kid’s eyes were darting and his mouth had a frozen look of purpose. He was trying to reach something inside her that no one had ever