A scruffy, underprivileged novel which scarcely takes the late evening hour in which it prowls around Greenwich Village, or even the Bowery, to reach the end of its minimal activities. The story (story?) is told by Anna, involved spectator of her roommate Mary who has a worthless habit of stealing expensive edibles (caviar, etc.) only next best or next worst to Florian Rando, her lover, the second story man who speaks portentously ""I stole. I was a thief."" He still is a thief, lifting everything in sight, as well as a ""practiced wheedler"" who drinks up the take. Mary in her supportive fashion tries to get a job as nurse's aide for the Welfare Island overflow caseload or posing au naturel for pictures until the clincher when Florian and Mary rip off Anna and take everything she's got before their last carnal conjunction. How could it matter--less?