Black Wings Has My Angel

I came back and searched dizzily under the trailer, muttering the way drunks do, and then I heard it. A shuffling around inside the trailer. The little tramp had knocked me in the head with her Southern Comfort and now she was in there loading up.
It wasn't easy to get inside now and it was less easy to work my way between the outer wall of the armored car and the inner wall of the trailer until I could get in where the money was. I saw the light inside the armored car, glowing in slitted shapes through the steel. The rustling was louder.
She was sitting on the floor, naked, in a skitter of green bills. Beyond her was the custodian, still simpering in death. She was scooping up handfuls of the green money and dropping it on top of her head so that it came sliding down along the cream-colored hair, slipping down along her shoulders and body. She was making a noise I never heard come out of a human being. It was a scream that was a whisper and a laugh that was a cry. Over and over. The noise and the scooping. The slippery, sliding bills against the rigid body.
She didn't know I was alive.