Around the back of the door a woman said, “Forty pesos, sir.”

     “I'm looking for Dolores Rosario.”

     She said, “I am she.”

     She was about Vangie's age, and she was gorgeous. A cascade of long black curls, the big eyes of a fawn, perfect skin, perfect teeth. Under a thin bathrobe she was naked and womanly-slim. It was the kind of beauty that doesn't have to try.

     “A man named Nonoy Paloma sent me to see you.”

     “Nonoy is my friend.”

     “I think we're supposed to talk about something that happened at a place called Danny Boy's.”

     With hope and caution she said, “You know about this?”

     “Some of it. I think girls have been dying.”

     She said, “Girls? More than one?”

     “Lorna Rodriguez. Alma Solano. Tetchie Salvador. Vivian Maamo. I think. Does this mean anything to you?”

     Each one seemed to strike her harder. She put her hands to her face.

     “The monster,” she said.

     “Correon.”

     She nodded dumbly.

     She let me take her gently by the elbow, to two empty chairs in a corner. Courtliness didn't seem out of place. She was no slattern.

     I moved the chairs to put the mattress behind us.

     We sat, and she said, “I know only Lorna. Four years ago already. I am living in Hinigaran, in the south of Negros. My husband dies, my child is hungry, I go to Bacolod—”

     I said, “You went to work at Danny Boy's. You needed the money. You met Correon.”

     “Yes. He is a friend of Orlando. They are partners, I think. He doesn't come to the club. Orlando sends girls to him at a special house in the countryside. Nonoy brings