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"When you say you want him dead, you saying you want me to take steps... or we just talkin?" Janza slumped on the edge of the bed, his suspenders draped listlessly over his Brontosaurus Burger ribcage. He cradled the phone on his shoulder and pulled off his shoe without unlacing. Then the other. He was wheezing. "Jesus fuck," he remarked. "No no, not you, Boss." The whore was on the crapper. She wiped her ass with her thong and flushed it. Then she smelled her hand. She went to the sink and turned it on. Her hips were sharp. Her mons a set of balls. There was no glamor to it, Janza admitted, but it took character to patronize whores. Maturity. And it wasn't the fucking. Any giggling northside button man could lay claim to that. It was the perfunctory manner of the transaction, the cozy sense of boredom. Janza put his palm over the phone's mouthpiece. "You know what you look like?" he said. "A flabby fucking Bushman." She didn't even turn her head. The dead air between her thighs was shaped like a fucking baluster.