But there, up the street, just coming into the corner of the window, someone was in the middle of the road. Walking literally down the middle, dragging one leg like it was heavy or broken, carving a fat line next to the skinny one the good one made.

I rang the bell and there she was, black hair feathered and blow-dried like an Italian Farrah Fawcett-Majors, big boobs filling her tight softball jersey, round ass squeezed into painted-on Jordache jeans.

I knew her face but not her hair, at least not the right way up.