After six beers that had failed to drown his buoyant distress, Vinson stubbed his dead cigarette into the bar’s tin ashtray, and through the dissipating filaments of smoke he saw her walk in.

She was the type of blond that would turn heads in any bar, much less one where the riff-raff of East New York came to knock heads or conduct not-so-under-the-counter drug deals. Dressed in the power suit of an attorney minus the stiff jacket, the cuffs of her uptown chemise had been rolled up to uneven levels on each arm. Her striped skirt was still in immaculate shape, but one of her heels had entirely snapped off, causing her to limp unevenly into the bar. Smeared mascara topped off that Farah Fawcett tabloid look that at once conjured simultaneous yet incongruous feelings of lust and repulsion.

For the moment, Vinson forgot all about the price on his head.

“Gimme 4 shots of your best tequila,” she told the bartender, slapping down a wad of cash. “I’m about to go to jail in the next 30 minutes.”