"I'd love to hear you play sometime."

Blackburn's tongue tasted like soap. "I don't have a guitar now," he said.

Heather shrugged. "Okay, I'll play for you instead. You like flute music?"

"You bet," Blackburn said. The back of his neck tingled, and he turned.

Roy-Boy was standing outside, looking in through the cl.u.s.ter of neon signs in the front window. He pointed his finger at Blackburn and waggled his thumb.

"So, you want to have another beer?" Heather asked. "Or would you like to hear some flute?"

Blackburn turned back to her. "Flute," he said.

They stood to leave. Roy-Boy was gone from the window. Blackburn left the five-dollar bill on the bar.

In the morning Blackburn awoke with Heather's rump against his belly. Since the end of his marriage, it was rare that he spent an entire night with a woman, and even rarer that he let it happen at his place. But as he and Heather had left The Hoot, she had said that her apartment was off-limits for s.e.x because her roommate was a born-again Christian. So they had decided to put off the flute recital, and Blackburn had taken Heather to his studio crackerbox in the Heights. After a few hours they had fallen asleep together.

He slid out of bed and went into the bathroom. He didn't flush, because he didn't want to wake Heather.

When he came out, he saw that she had rolled onto her back. Her mouth was open, and strands of her hair were stuck to her face. She wasn't a beauty, as Dolores had been, but she was fun. Blackburn didn't remember ever having laughed in bed before.

He dressed and went out. His plan was to bring Heather a surprise for breakfast. In the night, she had told him a story about a Rice fraternity that had been getting noise complaints from the sorority next door.

One morning the sorority women had received a box of donuts from the fraternity, along with a note saying that the donuts were the men's response to the complaints. The women had eaten the donuts for breakfast and then had received another delivery from the fraternity. It was a photograph of all seventy-two men in their dining room, each one naked except for the donut on his p.e.n.i.s. Heather thought the story was hilarious, so Blackburn wanted to have a box of donuts waiting for her when she awoke.

The sun had risen, but the air had the sting of a winter night. Blackburn hadn't thought Houston ever got so cold. He breathed deep, and the chill cut into his throat. When he exhaled, his breath was white. Hehurried across the parking lot to the Duster, hoping it would start. Its windows were opaque with frost.

Blackburn didn't have an ice sc.r.a.per, but maybe the defroster would do. He unlocked the driver's door and got inside, letting the door slam shut after him. The interior smelled of deodorant soap.

Roy-Boy was sitting in the pa.s.senger seat. He was wearing the black sweatsuit again. The sweatshirt's hood was up over his head, and his hands were inside the pouch.

"Morning, Musician," he said, peering out from the hood. "Happy Pearl Harbor Day."

Blackburn was annoyed. "Get out," he said, "and don't come near me again. If you do, you won't do anything else."

"Now, come on," Roy-Boy said. "You're a moral guy, and I haven't done anything to you. You wouldn't whack me for looking at you wrong, would you?"

"You broke into my car," Blackburn said. "In Texas, it's legal to shoot people who break into your car."

"But I didn't break in. This door was unlocked."

"Doesn't matter. You didn't have my permission to enter. So I can shoot you."

"But you don't have your gun."

"I can get it."

Roy-Boy took his hands from his sweatshirt pouch. His right hand held a .22-caliber revolver. "You can try," he said.

Blackburn saw that the .22 was a cheap piece of c.r.a.p. But at this range, it could kill him just as dead as a .357.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"Right now, to get warm," Roy-Boy said. "Then I want to talk a little. Let's drive, and crank the heater."

Blackburn put the key into the ignition. The Duster whined for a while, then started. The engine sputtered, and the car shook.

"Sounds like ice in the fuel line," Roy-Boy said. "Put a can of Heet in the tank. If you can find it in this city." He opened his door. "Hang on and I'll sc.r.a.pe your windows." He got out, leaving the door open.

Blackburn considered trying to run him over, but decided against it. A bullet might make it through the windshield. So he waited while Roy-Boy sc.r.a.ped. Roy-Boy's sc.r.a.per was a long, pointed shard of gla.s.s with white cloth tape wrapped around one end. Roy-Boy had pulled it from his sweatshirt pouch. He was sc.r.a.ping with his left hand. His right hand, with the pistol, was in the pouch. Blackburn could see the muzzle straining against the fabric. It was pointing at him.

When the windows were clear, Roy-Boy got back inside and closed the door. He licked ice crystals from the gla.s.s shard, then replaced it in his pouch and looked at Blackburn. "What're you waiting for?"

he asked. He pulled out the .22. Blackburn drove onto the street and headed for I-10. He would wait for his chance. It would come. It always did.

"So, how was she?" Roy-Boy asked as the Duster entered the freeway.

"Fine."

"I'm glad. I was afraid I'd ruined things for you at The Hoot, so I tried to fix them before I left. Guess I did. What're you gonna do with her now?"

Blackburn glanced at him. "What do you mean?"

"Are you gonna f.u.c.k her again, kill her, or what?"

"Why would I kill her?"

"Because you're a killer, boy. That's what you do, right?"

Blackburn's neck tingled. "What makes you think so?"

Roy-Boy leaned close. When he spoke, his breath was hot on Blackburn's face.

"Takes one to know one," he said.

Blackburn flinched away, b.u.mping his head on the window.

Roy-Boy returned to his previous position. "Don't worry," he said. "I promise not to stick my tongue in your ear or bite through your cheek." He pointed outside. "You just pa.s.sed a Day-Lite Donut store. If you take the next exit you can cut back to it."

Blackburn stared at him.

"Watch the road," Roy-Boy said.

Blackburn took the next exit. He parked at the donut shop, then put his keys into his coat pocket and clenched his fist. Two keys jutted out between his knuckles. He watched Roy-Boy.

Roy-Boy smiled. "You want to kill me now. You're hoping I won't notice your hand in your pocket."

"You seem to know me pretty well," Blackburn said.

"Oh, yeah. I know you, Musician." Roy-Boy put his pistol into his sweatshirt pouch, then held up his empty hands. "So I also know that if you think about it, you'll decide not to kill me after all. I pulled a gun on you, but only because you pulled a gun onme Wednesday night. I figure we're even."

That made some sense to Blackburn, but it only went so far. "How did you know I was going for donuts?"

"Well, I was shooting the s.h.i.t with Heather last night," Roy-Boy said. "You know, at The Hoot, while you were in the can. She was telling me about this donut gag some frat pulled. Then you came out this morning with a s.h.i.t-eating grin on your face, so I thought: donuts. A dozen glazed be okay?" He got outof the car and went into the shop.

Blackburn waited. There was no point in leaving. Roy-Boy knew where he lived.

Roy-Boy returned with a white cardboard box. "I got a few extras," he said, exhaling steam as he entered the car. "Some jelly and some creme. Want one?"

"No."

Roy-Boy opened the box and took out a filled donut. Chocolate creme oozed when he bit into it. He gestured at the Duster's ignition switch. "Don't let me hold you back," he said around a mouthful of pastry. "We can talk while you drive."

"I'd like to sit here awhile," Blackburn said. "If that's all right."

"Sure," Roy-Boy said. He reached up and pushed his sweatshirt hood from his head. "I'm warm now. I just thought you might want to get home to your three fifty-seven. Why'd you take it out of your coat, anyway? Were you afraid Heather might feel it when she hugged you? Or did you shoot her and then leave it in her hand to make it look like suicide?"

"I wouldn't kill a woman."

Roy-Boy's eyebrows rose. "How come? Haven't you run across any who deserved it?"

Blackburn thought of Dolores. "It's just a rule I have."

Roy-Boy shook his head. "s.e.xist," he said.

"Maybe. But a man's got to have his rules."

Roy-Boy stuffed the rest of the chocolate-creme donut into his mouth. "Yeah," he said, his voice m.u.f.fled. "If you say so."

"Haveyou ever killed a woman?" Blackburn asked. His fist tightened around his keys. The windows had fogged. No one could see in.

"No," Roy-Boy said, chewing. His eyes were steady, fixed on Blackburn's. "In fact, I've never killed anyone. But I'm still a killer, because I'd do it if I had to. If it was me or him. Or her."

"Why'd you think I killed Heather?"

"I didn't. I just thought it was a possibility. See, she's got a rep for s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g guys over. Narking on them, taking their money, leaving teeth marks, s.h.i.t like that. I figured if she did it to you, you'd fix her."

Roy-Boy swallowed. "But I was unaware of your rule."

Blackburn didn't know whether to believe what Roy-Boy said about Heather. He sounded like he was telling the truth, but some people were good at that. And Heather didn't seem like the kind of woman who would screw over a lover. On the other hand, Dolores hadn't seemed like that kind either.

"Any other probing questions before you decide whether to poke holes in me with your car keys?"

Roy-Boy asked. "One," Blackburn said. "Why are you bugging me?"

Roy-Boy grinned. There were chocolate smears on his teeth. "Am I bugging you? That's not my intention. I just think we can help each other, like we did Wednesday. I take half, you take half. See, if we hit places together we'll have less chance of trouble, because we'll both be watching for it. And we could carry the big stuff. You see the advantages?"

"Yes."

Roy-Boy held out his hand. "Then it's a partnership."

"No. I can see the advantages, but I don't want them."

Roy-Boy lowered his hand. "Why not? Because you don't want to take 'things people use'? Man, people use everything. They just don'tneed all of it. If it'll make your moral code happy, then I promise we won't steal any insulin kits or dialysis machines. But a TV set ought to be fair game."

"My moral code doesn't have anything to do with it," Blackburn said. "The problem is that I'm leaving town." It wasn't really a lie. He hadn't been planning to leave, but he hadn't been planning to stay either.

Roy-Boy looked surprised. "How come?"

"I never stay anywhere more than a few months." That was most often because he had no choice, but Roy-Boy didn't need to know that. "And I've been here since August, so another week and I'm gone. By Christmas for sure."

"Where to?"

"Don't know yet."

Roy-Boy looked away and sighed. "Ain't that the way it goes. I find a partner with morals, and he's no sooner found than lost." He opened the door and got out, leaving the box of donuts on the seat. "No hard feelings, though, hey?"

Blackburn said nothing.

"You don't still want to kill me, do you?" Roy-Boy asked. His hand went into his sweatshirt pouch.

"No," Blackburn said.

Roy-Boy stooped and peered in at him. "You should grow your hair into a ponytail," he said. "All of the great statesman-philosophers had ponytails. Thomas Jefferson, for example, who philosophized about independence and freedom, and owned slaves. What a great worldhe created." Roy-Boy straightened.

"Have a good trip, Musician, and enjoy the donuts. I'm gonna get some more for myself. See, I only have one t.e.s.t.i.c.l.e, so I have to eat twice as much as most men in order to manufacture enough j.i.s.m for my needs." He turned and walked toward the donut shop.

Blackburn leaned over to pull the door shut, then wiped the fog from the windshield and watched Roy-Boy enter the shop. He still had the feeling that he should kill Roy-Boy, but he couldn't think of a good reason why. All Roy-Boy had done was pester him. That might have been enough to warrantdeath, had it cost Blackburn anything, but it had cost him nothing but a little time. And now he had a free box of donuts, which pushed Roy-Boy's behavior even further into a gray area.

He started the Duster. No matter what he felt, he would not kill someone for behavior that fell into a gray area. He required a clear reason. If he started killing people without such reasons, he would be in violation of his own ethics. It was bad enough that he had become a burglar. A man had to have his rules.

On the way home, he stopped at a convenience store and bought a can of Heet, which he poured into the Duster's tank. Then he drove to his apartment and carried the box of donuts inside. Heather was in the bathroom with the door shut.

When she emerged, Blackburn was lying on the bed wearing nothing but a donut. Heather stayed two more hours, then said that she had to get home to study for finals. Blackburn was going to drive her, but the Duster refused to start. So Heather took a cab. After she had gone, Blackburn realized that he didn't have her phone number or address. He might be able to find her at The Hoot again, but he wasn't sure that he should. He liked her a lot, and he knew what that could lead to.

Blackburn was still in Houston the next Friday evening, watching a three-story apartment building in Bellaire. He had decided to leave the city by Christmas, but he needed traveling money. He had also decided that he had to stop breaking into houses and apartments, even if it meant working in fast food again. If he found some worthwhile items tonight, this would be his last day as a burglar.

He had not returned to The Hoot to look for Heather, and she had not come by his apartment to look for him. That was all right. They'd had twelve good hours together, which was twelve more than he'd had with most people, and he had the sense to leave well enough alone. It didn't feel good, but good feelings had nothing to do with good sense.

The sun had set, and lights in some of the apartments had come on. Blackburn, sitting across the street in the Duster, noted the number of cars in the building's lot and the number of apartments that were lit. He compared these numbers to those he had counted at other times since midaftemoon, when he had started watching. He had been careful-sometimes driving by, sometimes parking a few blocks away and walking, and now parked under a broken streetlight-but he hadn't observed this building for two or three entire days, as was his habit. He had figured that some of the residents would have already left for Christmas vacations, and their apartments would be easy to spot. He had been right. Two apartments on the top floor were staying dark, as were three on the second floor, and one on the first. Two other apartments had lights that had been on since he'd started watching, and he didn't think anyone was home.

He would wait a few more hours to be sure. He could turn on the radio now and then to keep from getting bored.

He was listening to a ZZ Top song when the back of his neck tingled. He looked around and saw a man standing under a streetlight in front of the apartment building. The man was wearing a black sweatsuit, and his hair was pulled back in a ponytail. He was pointing at Blackburn and waggling his thumb. It was Roy-Boy.