The first thing Violet does, every time after Vincent drops her off home, is to run straight into her bathroom and run a very hot shower. She washes her hair at least four times and scrubs herself until her skin is red and almost raw, so she will get his scent off her.

Sometimes, when she has shared a motel room with Vincent, she will scrub her skin so hard that it will almost bleed. She will brush her teeth until her gums turn furnace red and she’ll use plenty of mouth wash.

When Violet’s certain that Vincent’s smell has been eliminated by virtue of lavender oil and shea butter, she will put her uniform in the washer and then clean and sharpen her straight razor.

There’s a certain art to keeping your razor nice and clean her uncle would tell her (who knew a lot about razors even though he had never been a barber himself) It’s an art that entails respect and a hint of reverence, both to your tool, as well as to your job.

What you need to do, when you’re done cleaning the gunk her uncle would say, his tree bark-brown eyes running across the length of the blade is make sure the blade don’t grow. Blades grow, when you use them too much or when you don’t take care of them. Like people, they get long in the tooth. They don’t get the job done.

And Violet would nod, the little tomboy, barely eight summers old, leaning over her uncle as he opened one of the desk drawers. Her uncle would produce a length of cured leather, coated in a thick red paste. Her uncle would blow on it, drag his thumb across it until it was tight and uncreased. He’d then place the straight razor’s flat side against the surface and drag it across carefully, an inch at a time, listening in to the sweet sound of steel on leather.

People sometimes use fancy means to get things sharpened. They’ll use Muck acids or some expensive wetting stone that they’ll brag to their buddies about her uncle would say, smiling knowingly, as he looked at the blade, the tiny identations and irregularities on its surface magically smoothed out with a single pass of the blade. Then they’re going to shave off their beards, thinking they’re the toughest men in town.

But if it’s hurting people you’re looking to do, he’d tell Violet as he’d inspect the blade under the halogen light you need only leather and a steady hand.

When Violet’s straight razor edge is so clean it could be downright virginal, she clips her nails (puts them in a jar), puts on her Sunday best and brews herself a cup of tea. She doesn’t know how she knows it yet, but she can feel the phone about to go off, the electrons rubbing against each other in the air around it.

When it does ring, she does not even need to check for caller ID. She picks it up, doing her best babe-in-the-woods impression.

“Why hello, Boss.”

The voice that responds from the speakers makes her think of Vincent’s smell, a bed of roses by comparison. She can’t see it, but she knows there’s a pearly-white smile that belongs on a skull on the other side of the telephone line.

“Where the hell is your partner?” asks Mister Giovanni, his tone all rusted nails and powdered glass.