Her name was Cindy. She’s nobody. If she’s alive I doubt if she could read this. At the end of Brunswick Street where you and me and Mescaline were, she used to pose as a prostitute. She was a nice-looking girl. She would take a guy back there and her boyfriend—a notorious junkie around there with no qualms about being violent to get high, him and his friends would pounce and they would drag the guy out of the car and take the car. Sometimes they would just drag him out and beat the shit out of him for valuables. You’re talking about a guy that might have a wife at home and he’s got to explain this shit to the cops. Right off the bat he’s got to lie to the cops, which changes the whole flavor of the story. They got away with it for a long time. That’s pretty much it.