ome on in," Elaine said. "She's already here. Pam, this is Mr. Scudder, Matthew Scudder. Matt, I'd like you to meet Pam."

She had been sitting on the couch and she arose at our approach, a slender woman, about five-three, with short dark hair and intensely blue eyes. She was wearing a dark gray skirt and a pale blue angora sweater. Lipstick, eye shadow. High-heeled shoes. I sensed she'd chosen her outfit for our meeting, and that she wasn't sure she'd made the right choices.

Elaine, looking cool and competent in slacks and a silk blouse, said, "Sit down, Matt. Take the chair." She joined Pam on the couch and said, "I just finished telling Pam that I got her here under false pretenses. She's not going to meet Debra Winger."

"I asked who the star was gonna be," Pam said, "and she said Debra Winger, and I'm like, wow, Debra Winger is gonna do a movie of the week? I didn't think she would do TV." She shrugged. "But I guess there's not gonna be a movie, so what difference does it make who the star is?"

"But the thousand dollars is real," Elaine said.

"Yeah, well, that's good," Pam said, "because I can use the money. But I didn't come for the money."

"I know that, dear."

"Not just for the money."

I had the money, a thousand for her and the twelve hundred I owed Elaine and some walking-around money for myself, three thousand dollars total from my safe-deposit box.

"She said you're a detective," Pam said.

"That's right."

"And you're going after those guys. I talked a lot with the cops, I must of talked with three, four different cops—"

"When was that?"

"Right after it happened."

"And that was—?"

"Oh, I didn't realize you didn't know. It was in July, this past July."

"And you reported it to the police?"

"Jesus," she said. "What choice did I have? I had to go to the hospital, didn't I? The doctors are like, wow, who did this to you, and what am I gonna say, I slipped? I cut myself? So they called the police, naturally. I mean, even if I didn't say anything, they would of called the police."

I propped open my notebook. I said, "Pam, I don't think I got your last name."

"I didn't give it. Well, no reason not to, is there? It's Cassidy."

"And how old are you?"

"Twenty-four."

"You were twenty-three when the incident took place?"

"No, twenty-four. My birthday's the end of May."

"And what sort of work do you do, Pam?"

"Receptionist. I'm out of work at the moment, that's why I said I could use the money. I guess anybody could always use a thousand dollars, but especially now, being out of work."

"Where do you live?"

"Twenty-seventh between Third and Lex."

"Is that where you were living at the time of the incident?"

"Incident," she said, as if trying out the word. "Oh, yeah, I been there for almost three years now. Ever since I came to New York."

"Where did you come from?"

"Canton, Ohio. If you ever heard of it I can guess what for. The Pro Football Hall of Fame."

"I almost went for a visit once," I said. "I was in Massillon on business."

"Massillon! Oh, sure, I used to go there all the time. I knew a ton of people in Massillon."

"Well, I probably never met any of them," I said. "What's the address on Twenty-seventh Street, Pam?"

"One fifty-one."

"That's a nice block," Elaine said.

"Yeah, I like it okay. The only thing, it's silly, but the neighborhood doesn't have a name. It's west of Kips Bay, it's below Murray Hill, it's above Gramercy, and of course it's way east of Chelsea. Some people started calling it Curry Hill, you know, because of all the Indian restaurants."

"You're single, Pam?" A nod. "You live alone?"

"Except for my dog. He's just a little dog but a lot of people won't break into a place if there's a dog, no matter what size he is. They're just scared of dogs, period."

"Would you like to tell me what happened, Pam?"

"The incident, you mean."

"Right."

"Yeah," she said. "I guess. That's what we're here for, right?"

oOo

IT was on a summery evening in the middle of the week. She was two blocks from her house, standing on the corner of Park and Twenty-sixth waiting for the light to change, and this truck pulled up and this guy called her over wanting directions to some place, she couldn't catch the name.

He got out of the truck, explaining that maybe he had the name of the place wrong, that it was on the invoice, and she went around with him to the rear of the truck. He opened the back of the truck, and there was another man inside, and they both had knives. They made her get in the back of the truck with the second man, and the driver got back in the truck and drove off.

AT this point I interrupted her, wanting to know why she had been so obliging about getting in the truck. Had there been people around? Had anyone witnessed the abduction?

"I'm a little hazy on the details," she said.

"That's all right."

"It happened so quick."

Elaine said, "Pam, could I ask you a question?"

"Sure."

"You're in the game, aren't you, dear?"

I thought, Jesus, how did I miss that?

"I don't know what you mean," Pam said.

"You were working that night, weren't you?"

"How did you know?"

Elaine took the girl's hand. "It's all right," she said. "Nobody's going to hurt you, nobody's here to judge you. It's all right."

"But how did you—"

"Well, it's a popular stroll, isn't it, that stretch of Park Avenue South? But I guess I knew earlier. Honey, I was never on the pavement, but I've been in the game myself for almost twenty years."

"No!"

"Honestly. Right in this apartment, which I bought when it went co-op. I've learned to call them clients instead of tricks, and when I'm around squares I sometimes say I'm an art historian, and I've been real smart about saving my pennies over the years, but I'm in the life the same as you, dear. So you can tell it to us the way it really happened."

"God," she said. "Actually, you know something? It's a relief. Because I didn't want to come here and tell you a story, you know? But I didn't think I had any choice."

"Because you thought we'd disapprove of you?"

"I guess. And because of what I told the cops."

"The cops didn't know you were hooking?" I asked.

"No."

"They never even brought it up? With the pickup taking place right on the stroll?"

"They were Queens cops," she said.

"Why would Queens cops catch the case?"

"Because of where I wound up. I was in Elmhurst General Hospital, that's in Queens, so that's where the cops were from. What do they know about Park Avenue South?"

"Why did you wind up at Elmhurst General? Never mind, you'll get to that. Why don't you start over from the beginning?"

"Sure," she said.

IT was a summery evening in the middle of the week. She was two blocks from her house, standing on the corner of Park and Twenty-sixth waiting for someone to hit on her, and this truck pulled up and a guy motioned for her to come over. She walked around and got in on the passenger side and he drove a block or two and turned on one of the side streets and parked at a hydrant.

She thought it would be a quick blow-job while he sat behind the wheel, twenty or twenty-five for maybe five minutes. The guys in cars almost always wanted head and they wanted to be done right there in their cars. Sometimes they wanted it while the car was moving, which seemed crazy to her, but go figure. The johns who came around on foot would generally spring for a hotel room, and the Elton at Twenty-sixth and Park was reasonable and convenient for that. There was always her apartment, but she almost never took anybody back there unless she was desperate, because she didn't believe it was safe. Besides, who wanted to trick in the bed you slept in?

She never saw the guy in the back until the truck was parked. Never even knew he was there until his arm came around her neck and his hand clapped over her mouth.

He said, "Surprise, Pammy!"

God, she was scared. She just froze while the driver laughed and reached into her blouse and started feeling her tits. She had big tits and she'd learned to dress to show them on the street, in a halter top or a revealing blouse, because guys who went for tits really went for them, so you might as well show the merchandise. He went right for the nipple and tweaked it and it hurt and she knew these two were going to be rough.

"We'll all get in back," the driver said. "More privacy, room to stretch out. We might as well be comfortable, right, Pammy?"

She hated the way they said her name. She had introduced herself as Pam, not Pammy, and they said it in a mocking way, a very nasty way.

When the guy in back let go of her mouth she said, "Look, nothing rough, huh? Whatever you want, and I'll give you a real good time, but no rough stuff, okay?"

"You on drugs, Pammy?"

She said no, because she wasn't. She didn't care for drugs much. She would smoke a joint if somebody handed it to her, and coke was nice but she never yet actually bought any. Sometimes guys would lay out lines for her, and they got insulted if you weren't interested, and anyway she liked it well enough. Maybe they thought it got her hot, made her more into it, like sometimes you would get a guy who would put a dab of coke on his dick, like that would be such a treat for you when you went down on him that he'd get extra good head on account of it.

"You a junkie, Pammy? Where do you fix, up your nose? Between your toes? You know any big drug dealers? You got a boyfriend deals junk, maybe?"

Really stupid questions. Like there was no purpose to them, like they more or less got off on asking the questions. The one did, anyway. The driver. He was the one all hipped on the subject of drugs. The other one was more into calling her names. "You dirty cunt, you fucking piece-of-shit bitch," like that. Sickening if you let it get to you but actually a lot of guys were like that, especially when they got excited. One guy, she must have done him four, five times, always in his car, and he was always very polite before and after, very considerate, never rough, but it was always the same story when she was copping his joint and he was getting close to getting off. "Oh, you cunt, you cunt, I wish you were dead. Oh, I wish you would die, I wish you were dead, you fucking cunt." Horrible, just horrible, but except for that he was a perfect gentleman and he paid fifty dollars each time and never took long to come, so what was the big deal if he had a nasty mouth? Sticks and stones, right?

They went in the back of the truck and it was all fixed up with a mattress, which made it comfortable, actually, or it would have been comfortable if she could have relaxed, but you couldn't, not with these guys, because they were too weird. How could you relax?

They made her take everything off, every stitch, which was a pain in the ass but she knew not to argue. And then, well, they fucked her, taking turns, first the driver, then the other one. That part was pretty much routine, except of course that there were the two of them, and when the second man was doing her the driver pinched her nipples. That hurt, but she knew better than to say anything, and anyway she knew he was aware that it hurt. That was why he was doing it.

They both did her and they both got off, which was encouraging, because it was when a guy couldn't get it up or couldn't finish that you were sometimes in danger, because they got mad at you, like it was your fault. After the second one groaned and rolled off of her she said, "Hey, that was great. You guys are all right. Let me get dressed, huh?"

That was when they showed her the knife.

A switchblade, a big one, really skanky-looking. The second man, the one with the dirty mouth, had the knife, and he said, "You ain't going nowhere, you fucking cunt."

And Ray said, "We're all going somewhere, we're going for a little ride, Pammy."

That was his name, Ray. The other one called him Ray, that's how she knew it. The other one's name, if she heard it then it never registered, because she didn't have a clue. But the driver was Ray.

Except they switched, so he wasn't the driver now. The other one climbed over the seat and got behind the wheel and Ray stayed in back with her, and he kept the knife, and of course he didn't let her put on her clothes.

This was where it started getting really hard to remember. She was in the back of the truck and it was dark and she couldn't see out and they drove and drove and she didn't have any idea where they were or where they were going. Ray asked her about drugs again, he was hipped on the subject, he told her junkies were just looking to die, that it was a death trip, and that they should all get what they were looking for.

He made her go down on him. That was better, at least he would shut up, and at least she was, like, doing something.

Then they were parked again, God knows where, and then there was a lot of sex. They took turns with her and they just did stuff for a long time, and she was like zoning in and out, like she wasn't really a hundred percent there for part of the time. She was pretty sure that neither of them came. They both got off the first time, on Twenty-fourth Street or wherever it was, but now it was like they didn't want to come because that would break up the party. They did it to her in, well, all the usual places, and they put other things inside her besides parts of themselves. She wasn't really too clear on what they used. Some of what they did hurt and some didn't and it was awful, it was all terrible, and then she remembered something, she hadn't remembered this before, but there was a point where she got really peaceful.

Because, see, she knew she was going to die. And it's not like she wanted to die, because she didn't, she definitely didn't, but the thought somehow came to her that that's what was going to happen, and that was all that was going to happen, and she thought, well, like I can handle that. Like I can live with it, almost, which was ridiculous because that was the point, she couldn't live, not if she died.

"Okay, I can handle that." Just like that, really.

And then, just as she had really come to terms with it, just as she was enjoying this feeling of peacefulness, Ray said, "You know what, Pammy? You're going to get a chance. We're going to let you live."

The two of them argued then, because the other man wanted to kill her, but Ray said they could let her go, that she was a whore, that nobody cared about whores.

But she wasn't just any whore, he said. She had the best set of tits on the street. He said, "Do you like 'em, Pammy? Are you proud of them?"

She didn't know what she was supposed to say.

"Which one's your favorite? Come on, eeny meeny miney mo, pick one. Pammy. Pam-mee"— singsong, like a taunting child— "pick a titty, Pammy. Which one's your favorite?"

And he had something in his hand, sort of a loop of wire, coppery in the dim light.

"Pick the one you want to keep, Pammy. One for you and one for me, that's fair, isn't it, Pam-mee? You can keep one and I'll take the other one, and it's your choice, Pam-mee, you have to choose, you hot little bitch, you have to pick one. It's Pammy's choice, you remember Sophie's Choice, but that was tots and this is tits, Pam-mee, and you better pick one or I'll take them both."

God, he was crazy, and what was she supposed to do, how could she pick one breast? There had to be a way to win this game but she couldn't think what it was.

"Look at that, look at that, I touch them and the nipples get hard, you get hot even when you're scared, even when you're crying, you little cunt, you. Pick one, Pammy. Which one will it be? This one? This one? What are you waiting for, Pammy? Are you trying to stall? Are you trying to make me angry? Come on, Pammy. Come on. Touch the one you want to keep."

God, what was she supposed to do?

"That one? Are you sure, Pammy?"

God—

"Well, I think it's a good choice, an excellent choice, so that one's yours and this one's mine and a deal's a deal and a trade's a trade and no trades back, Pam-mee."

The wire was a circle around her breast, and there was a wooden handle attached to each end of the wire, like the kind they slipped under the string of a package so you could carry it, and he held the handles and drew his hands apart, and—

And she was out of her body, just like that, floating without a body, up in the air above the truck and able to look down through the roof of the truck, watching, watching as the wire slipped through her flesh as if through a liquid, watching the breast slide slowly away from the rest of her, watching the blood seep.

Watching until the blood filled up the whole of her vision, watching it darken, darken, until the world went black.