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thousand dollars, so the judge granted bail for that amount.
    It was a quarter after eleven. Before Lofton was taken to the larger holding area downstairs, he asked a court officer how long it might be before he got out, and was told about one-thirty, two o’clock. If you were polite to them, apparently they’d be polite to you.
    There were about fifty in custody down there. He waited, watching the numbers thin as people made bail or were taken to other detention centres. The day dragged on. At three he asked a guard what the deal was, and was told that his guy must not have been able to provide the surety.
    By four twenty-five, Lofton figured court was finished. There were only three others in the cell with him, and the Justice of the Peace had likely left for the day. He swore to himself as he looked through the window at people typing and walking around, knowing the phones in the Don would be cut off at five and he was fucked. Maybe he should call his ex-wife.
    Hours later, he sat on a bench in the police van on his way back to jail. At nine-thirty, while waiting in a downstairs holding cell to be reprocessed into the general population, Lofton asked if there was a chance he could use a telephone and was told by a guard that he was going to be seeing the J.P. in about ten minutes.
    He was taken upstairs to another cell, wondering what was going on. When he was led down a hallway, Lofton saw Rowe through a glass partition talking to someone, maybe a Justice of the Peace.
    After he was released, they were both buzzed into the anteroom and stood by the benches waiting for the guard behind the window to release the second door. “Oh, man,” he said, “I didn’t know what the fuck was happening. All fucking day I’ve just been waiting around.”
    â€œYou’re welcome.”
    â€œYou don’t know what it’s been like, having no idea what the fuck’s going on hour after hour, all day long. I mean, I saw you in court, I knew you showed up.”
    He felt mildly exhilarated when they stepped out into the night air and walked down the ramp.
    â€œI spent the whole day on this bullshit,” Rowe said. “I didn’t even get to see the guy until almost four o’clock, and when he looked at my bank book he said I hadn’t had it updated in a couple of months, and gave me twenty minutes to get to a bank. I don’t know why that made any difference; if I’d had it updated two days ago I could have still taken all the money out without using the book. I remembered there were Royal Bank machines at Queen and Yonge, but when I got there they were gone; it’s a fucking Towers store now.”
    â€œI didn’t know where you went. Do you have a cigarette?”
    Rowe gave him one, and paused while he shielded his lighter for him. They started walking again. “I’d left the car in a garage because I figured I wouldn’t have to go far, but when I finally found a machine it was too late and the courts were closed. So I had to come to the jail tonight to do it, and waited here for over an hour and a half.”
    â€œI wasn’t even back from court yet. The bail shouldn’t have been that high; the duty counsel should have gone for less.”
    When they got to the Firebird, Lofton waited for Rowe to unlock his door. As he settled into the front seat he put his cigarette in the ashtray, and pulled a red bandanna from his jacket pocket. “All right, let’s go get a fucking drink.”

5
    A fter Marva Jones collected ten dollars for the table dance, she slipped into her bra, hooked the front clasp, and then stood with one hand on the edge of the table to aim a spike-heeled pump through the leg-hole of her thong. Picking up her small platform, she walked through the bar in an easy strut, showing off her long legs.
    At twenty-nine she figured they were her best asset. Any weight she’d gained didn’t show much on a toned, big-boned,