The thought greets Vince Camden as he sits up in bed, frantic, casting around a dark bedroom for proof of his existence and finding only props: nightstand, dresser, ashtray, clock. Vince breathes heavily. Sweats in the cool air. Rubs his eyes to shake the dust of these musings, not a dream exactly, this late-sleep panic—fine glass thin as paper, shattered and swirling, cutting as it blows away.

Vince Camden pops his jaw, leans over, and turns off the alarm just as the one, five, and nine begin their fall. Each morning at 1:59 he sits up like this and turns off the clock radio in the split second before two and the shrill blast of alarm. He wonders: How is a thing like that possible? And yet…if you can manage such a trick—every morning waking up a few ticks
before
your alarm goes off—why couldn’t you count all the dead people you know?

START WITH GRANDPARENTS.
Two sets. One grandfather had a second wife. That’s five. Vince runs a toothbrush over his molars.
Mother and father. Seven. Does a stillborn sister count? No. A person has to have been alive to be dead. By the time he finishes his shower, blow-dries his hair, and gets dressed—gray slacks, long-sleeve black dress shirt, two buttons open—he’s gone through family, neighbors, and former associates: already thirty-four people he knows to be dead. Wonders if that’s high, if it’s normal to know so many dead people.

Normal. That word tails him from a safe distance most days. He opens a drawer and pulls out a stack of forged credit cards, looks at the names on the cards: Thomas A. Spaulding. Lane Bailey. Margaret Gold. He imagines Margaret Gold’s lovely
normal
life, a crocheted afghan tossed over the back of her sofa. How many dead people could Margaret Gold possibly know?

Vince counts out ten credit cards—including Margaret Gold’s—and puts these in the pocket of his windbreaker. Fills the other pocket with Ziploc bags of marijuana. It’s 2:16 in the morning when Vince slides his watch onto his wrist, careful not to catch the thick hair on his forearm. Oh yeah, Davie Lincoln—retarded kid used to carry money in his mouth while he ran errands for Coletti in the neighborhood. Choked on a half-dollar. Thirty-five.

Vince stands in the tiny foyer of his tiny house, if you can call a coatrack and a mail slot a foyer. Zips his windbreaker and snaps his cuffs out like a Vegas dealer leaving the table. Steps out into the world.

About Vince Camden: he is thirty-six and white. Single. Six feet tall, 160 pounds, broad-shouldered and thin, like a martini glass. Brown and blue, as the police reports have recorded his hair and eyes. His mouth curls at the right corner, thick eyebrows go their own way, and this casts his face in perpetual smirk, so that every woman who has ever been involved with him eventually arrives at the same expression, hands on hips, head cocked:
Please. Be serious.

Vince is employed in midlevel management, food industry: baking division—donuts. Generally, there is less to making donuts than one might assume. But Vince likes it, likes getting to work at 4:30 in the morning and finishing before lunch. He feels as if he’s gotten one over on the world, leaving his place of employment for lunch and simply not coming back. He’s realizing this is a fixed part of his personality, this desire to get one over on the world. Maybe there is a hooky gene.

Outside, he pulls the collar of his windbreaker against his cheeks. Cold this morning: late October. Freezing, in fact—the steam leaks from his mouth and reminds him of an elementary school experiment with dry ice, which reminds him of Mr. Harlow, his fifth-grade teacher. Hanged himself after it became common knowledge that he was a bit too fond of his male students. Thirty-six.

It’s a serene world from your front steps at 2:20 in the morning: dim porch lights on houses black with sleep; sidewalks split the dark dewed lawns. But the night has a grimmer hold on Vince’s imagination, and he shivers with the creeping sensation—even as he reminds himself it’s impossible—that he’s on the menu tonight.

“
SO, WHAT…YOU
want me to do this thing or not?”

The two men stare across the bench seat of a burgundy Cadillac Seville. The driver asks: “How much would something like that cost?”

The bigger man, in the passenger seat, is impatient, restless, but he pauses to think. It’s a fair question. After all, it is 1980, and the service industries are mired in this stagnant economy, too. Are the criminal sectors subject to the same sad market forces: inflation, deflation, stagflation? Recession? Do thugs suffer double-digit unemployment? Do criminals feel malaise?

“Gratis,” quotes the passenger.

“Gratis?” repeats the driver, shifting in the leather seat.

“Yeah.” And after a pause: “Means free.”

“I know what it means. I was just surprised. That’s all. You’re saying you’ll help me out with this guy for free?”

“I’m saying we’ll work something out.”

“But it won’t cost me anything?”

“We’ll work it out.”

And it says something about the man driving the Cadillac that in addition to not knowing what the word
gratis
means, he also doesn’t realize that nothing is free.

EIGHTY-SEVEN BARS
in greater Spokane, serving three hundred thousand people. One taxicab company: eight cabs. So on a Tuesday morning just past two
A.M.
, last call, the economics are clear: more drunks than the market can bear. They leach out onto the sidewalks and stagger and yawn to their cars—those who own them and remember where they’re parked. The rest walk from downtown to the neighborhoods, scattering in all directions across bridges, through underpasses, beneath trestles, up hills to dark residential streets, solitary figures beneath thought bubbles of warm breath and cigarette smoke. Rehearsed lies.

Vince Camden concentrates on his own thoughts as he walks sober and rested among the drunk and tired. Stout downtown brick and brownstone give way to low-rent low-rise strips—karate dojos, waterbed liquidators, erotic bookstores, pawnshops, and Asian massage—then a neighborhood of empty warehouses, rail lines, vacant fields, and a solitary two-story Victorian house, an after-hours cards and rib joint called Sam’s Pit. This is where Vince hangs out most nights before his shift begins at the donut shop.

Vince was only in town a few months when Sam died. Thirty-seven. The new owner is named Eddie, but everyone calls him
Sam—it being easier to change one’s name to Sam than to change the faded Pepsi sign on the old house from
SAM’S
to
EDDIE’S
. Just as old Sam did, new Sam opens the Pit when the rest of the city closes, after Last Call. The place works like a drain for the city; every morning when the bars close, the drunks and hookers and lawyers and johns and addicts and thieves and cops and cardplayers—as old Sam used to say, “Evergodambody”—swirls around the streets and ends up here. It’s why the cops don’t sweat the gambling and undercounter booze. It’s just nice to know that at three
A.M
., everyone will be gathered in one place, like the suspects in a seamy British drawing room.

The Pit lurks behind high, unkempt shrubs, the only thing on a block of vacant lots, like a last tooth. Behind, a rutted dirt field functions as a parking lot for Sam’s and a factory showroom for the half-dozen professional women who gather here each night for last tricks. Inside, pimps play cards and wait for their cut.

Gravel cracks beneath Vince’s shoes as he angles for Sam’s Pit. Six cars are parked randomly in this weed-covered field, girls doing business in a couple. A car door opens fifty feet from Vince, and a woman’s voice skitters across the weedy lot: “Let go!”

Vince stares straight ahead.
Not your business.

“Vince! Tell this guy to let go of me!”

Beth’s voice. At the door, Vince turns and walks back across the lot toward a tan Plymouth Duster. Inside, Beth Sherman is wrestling with a guy in a white turtleneck sweater and a navy sport coat. As he walks up to the car, Vince can see the guy’s pants are open and that he’s trying to keep Beth from getting out of the car. She swings at him with the frayed, dirty cast on her right forearm. Barely misses.

Vince leans down and opens the car door. “Hey, Beth. What’s going on?”

The guy lets go and she pulls away, climbs out of the car and past Vince. He is amazed again how pretty she can be, triangular face and round eyes, bangs cut straight across them. She can’t
weigh a hundred pounds. Odd for a woman in her line of work to actually look younger than she is, but Beth could pass for a teenager—at least from a distance. Up close—well, the lifestyle is tough to hide. Beth points at the guy in the car with her cast. “He grabbed my ass.”

The guy is incredulous. “You’re a hooker!”

“I’m in real estate!”

“You were blowing me!”

Beth yells around Vince at the man: “Do you grab your plumber’s ass when
he’s
working?”

Vince steps between Beth and the john, and smiles disarmingly at the guy. “Look, she doesn’t like to be touched.”

“What kind of hooker doesn’t like to be touched?”

Vince can’t argue the premise. But he wishes the guy had just kept his mouth shut. He knows how this will go now, and in fact Beth steps around him, fishes around in her pocket, and throws a twenty-dollar bill in his face.

The guy holds up the twenty. “I gave you forty!”

“You got half,” she says. “You get half your money back.”

“Half? There’s no such thing!” He looks up at Vince. “Is there such thing as half?”

Vince looks from Beth to the guy and opens his mouth without the slightest expectation that anything will come. He looks back at Beth and their eyes catch long enough for both of them to note.

About Beth Sherman: she is thirty-three, just leaving “cute,” with brown hair and eyes that dart from attention. Her dislike of contact notwithstanding, Beth is well respected among the working women at Sam’s, mostly for one big accomplishment—she quit heroin without methadone, cold fucking turkey, exactly nineteen months and two weeks ago, on the very day she found out she was pregnant. Her boy, Kenyon, is a little more than a year now and he seems fine, but everyone knows how she watches him breathlessly, constantly comparing him to the other kids in the park and at his
day care, looking for any sign that he is slow or stunted, that her worst fears are realized, that the junk has ruined him, too. And while she is clearly on her way out of this life—she fired her pimp,
in writing
—Beth continues to turn tricks, maybe because there are so few ways for a high school dropout to support herself and her son. Anyway, she’s not the only hooker at Sam’s who introduces herself as something else. It’s a place full of actresses and massage therapists, models, students, and social workers, but when Beth says she’s in real estate, people actually seem to believe it.

When he first arrived, Vince purchased Beth’s services (he tried a few of the girls) and found himself intrigued by her cool distance, the way she bristled under his hands. Then one night six months ago, she and Vince drank two bottles of wine and spent a night together
without
the exchange of money. And it was different—alarming and close. No bristle. But since then everything has been out of sorts—Beth not wanting to charge him, Vince wary of becoming involved with a woman with a kid. And so they haven’t slept together in three months. The worst part is that it feels like cheating to be with the other women, and so Vince is in the midst of his longest stretch of celibacy that doesn’t involve a jail cell. The whole thing has proven to him the old axiom among the professional class:
Free sex ruins everything.

In the parking lot, Beth stalks away from the angry, unsated john—her tight jeans beneath a coat that stops midriff. Vince watches her go, then takes one of the bags of dope from his pocket, bends down, and holds it up to the window. The Bible says that even the peacemaker deserves a profit. Or it says something anyway.

After a second, the guy shrugs and holds up the twenty. “Yeah, okay,” he says. As they exchange dope for money, the guy shakes his head. “Never heard of a hooker who didn’t want to be touched.”

Vince nods, although in his estimation the world is made of only such people, pot-smoking cops, thieves who tithe 10 percent,
society women who wear garters, tramps who sleep with stuffed bears, criminal donut makers, real estate hookers. He remembers a firefighter in the old neighborhood named Alvin Dunphy who was claustrophobic. Died when a burning apartment building collapsed on him. Thirty-eight.

“
YOU CAN’T HAVE
half. You either get one or you don’t.”

“Bet a buck. I’m with Jacks. What good’s the job if you don’t get to blow?”

“I don’t know, I think I got a half the first time.”

“How old were you, Petey?”

“The first time? Thirteen. Bump a buck.”

“Thirteen? No shit? Wish I had a sister.”

“It
was
your sister.”

“So what do you think, Vince?”

He has been quiet, lost in thought, hungover from a night of disquieting dreams. He sits perfectly still, leaning forward on his knees, staring off to the side, his cards stacked neatly in front of him. Sam’s Pit is dark and carpeted—the old dining room and living room of the Victorian decorated with velvet wall hangings of men with mustaches and Afros screwing huge-hipped women. Light comes from a couple of bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling and a lamp behind the bar. There are six tables in two main rooms—poker games going on at two of the tables; at the other four, people are eating ribs. Four women, including Beth and her best friend, Angela, sit at the bar, swirling drinks made from the bottles Eddie keeps under the counter.

Vince sits up and pushes the hair out of his eyes. “I’m in.” Snaps a five into the pot without looking at his cards. Eventually, they all know Vince will hold forth: “What do I think? I think you could reasonably have a half. Honestly, the first part is the best part
anyway, and some people say that the end is the death of the thing. Or at least when it all goes downhill. No, I think the real value might be in those first few minutes…just getting someone’s full attention.”

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