92.

Havana kills another Red Rabbit, to give her metabolism something to do. Dedicates the ensuing batch of 80-proof truth serum as follows: “It’s over.”

London’s already shopping. Blonde, 34-28-34, corner pocket. “Sorry?”

“I said, ‘It’s over.’”

“Oh.” He indicates the obvious: “And, by Tuesday…?”

“We’ll burn that bridge when we come to it. Cross.”

“Freud.”

“Fuck.” She grins. Strokes his hand, docile. “You’ll live?”

“Sorry?” London’s inking a bar napkin with numbers, x’s, o’s.

“Don’t you have a nunnery to be getting to?” she spits.

“Monastery. They gave me the afternoon off.”