He drew in another deep breath, drew it all the way down to the floor of his lungs, and now recognized the smell in here for what it was-not the smell of dust but the smell of women, women who had been long entrenched with their own kind, women who had knitted themselves into a communal shroud of self-righteousness in an effort to block out the real world. Wanted a cigarette but didn’t dare light one for all he knew, they might have the smoke detectors turned up enough to shriek at the first whiff of tobacco. He’d strangled one of the women he’d been The point was that she had taken what was his, she had forgotten who was the meanest motherfucker in the jungle, and for that she would have to pay. She had only used it once, and for a paltry three hundred and fifty dollars, but that wasn’t the point. And what mattered most was she had taken his bank card. What mattered more was he hadn’t had the slightest clue she meant to do it. The women he had slept with since Rose had left meant nothing, either.
Without Rose, everything that had happened this spring-the glamour bust, the good press, the reporters who had stunned him by asking respectful questions for a change, even the promotion-meant nothing. “And if you’re not now, I guarantee you will be soon. They had been made by his fingernails, but their real source was deep inside his head, an oven which had been running at broil for most of his life. But now- Norman’s palms were covered with a faint lacework of semicircular white scars.
To believe had been a mistake, one which had cost him at least two weeks: he had assumed that she wouldn’t want to go too far from home, from the area where she’d grown up-not a scared little mouse like her.
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