So Abe had spent the afternoon on the terrace, reading Loren Estleman’s Bloody Season and wondering how Wyatt Earp had ever acquired such a good reputation. Every ten minutes he checked through the double doors.

At a little after three he had finished his book and awakened Hardy. He had a fever but he was okay. He had taken some more pills. They sat across from each other on the terrace.

“Okay,” Abe said. “Now what?”

“I was hoping you’d tell me.”

Abe sat back and sucked some air through his front teeth. “You want to drive him back, all of us?”

“Three days, small car. I don’t know how I’d be,” Hardy said. “I have felt better.” He thought a minute. “Isn’t there any way they can hold him here?”

Abe shook his head. “I don’t know. I’m not here officially. I can’t arrest him.”

“But they can arrest him down here, can’t they?”

Abe’s scar tightened through his lips. “There is a rumor that anybody can be arrested here for anything. A humble and cooperative California police officer, such as myself, for example, could probably speak to the locals and arrange something.” Abe stood up, yawning, and glanced back inside. “He’s tied up good, Diz. Let’s go down by the pool.”

The reason they had never taken him was they weren’t too smart.

Okay, they had the gun, but a weapon doesn’t do you any good if you can’t use it. Hardy taking that shot this morning had rattled him a little, made him forget where they were for a while. It was possible that maybe Hardy was crazy enough to shoot him and the consequences be damned.

But now, with Glitsky here, it wasn’t going to happen. Glitsky was a good cop and he was going to try to arrest him and have him held until they could get the extradition together. At least, that’s what they’d said, with the door open, thinking he was still sleeping. Not too smart.

It was surprisingly comfortable with the pillow and the blanket. Rusty reviewed his options.

When they untied him they’d probably manhandle him away into Hardy’s car and, even if it was a long trip, that would be their only choice. Well, he didn’t want to spend three or four days tied up, heading back to the border.

On the other hand, he could pretend to cooperate, be docile, let them bring him to the Mexican police, and then gently point out that Messrs Glitsky and Hardy here were the ones that had kidnapped him. And see? Look at this! They are illegally armed!

Don’t you Mexican authorities look with extreme displeasure upon civilians with guns, especially foreign civilians, most especially big-shot United States policemen coming down here doing their extralegal we-don’t-need-no-stinking-badges extradition bullshit without okaying it up front? Any good macho jefe would likely be outraged at the imperialistic arrogance of it all.

No question. They’d take it up with Hardy and Glitsky first.

It was a far better chance than the drive.

They wouldn’t hold him on Glitsky’s say-so after that. There wasn’t even a warrant for him in the States. Did they forget he knew this stuff? I’m a lawyer, fellas, this is what I do.

He smiled under the blanket.

Hardy and Glitsky were coming back into the room, Hardy saying, “It’s still risky.”

Glitsky prodded him with his shoe, pulled the blanket off him.

Rusty moaned, stirred, made a good show of it. “That was a good rest,” he said. “What time is it?”

They sat alfresco in the late afternoon, three American tourists at a table on the Esplanade, looking out at the bay, the bodies in swimsuits, the beggars. Hardy carried his gun, loaded, tucked into his belt under his windbreaker.

They were all eating shrimp cocktails and drinking draft Heineken. Rusty said he’d pay for it from his winnings the day before. He was well rested, in apparent high spirits.

Hardy excused himself to go to the bathroom.

“I appreciate the last meal,” Rusty said.

Abe nodded, noncommittal. “Your nickel.”

“I’ve heard stories about Mexican jails, you know. Where it’s just like a hotel. I mean, you buy your food, have women sent in, same as a hotel. Just depends on how much money you have.”

Abe sucked the meat from the tail of a shrimp. “That’s nice,” he said. “And you’ve got money, right?” He drank some beer. “Though I don’t think you’ll be there too long.”

“Yeah, well, you gotta make the best of the cards you’re dealt.”

Glitsky didn’t pay much attention. He ate as though he was hungry. Hardy came back up to the table.

“You got him?” Abe asked.

Hardy nodded and Abe got up. “Later,” he said.

“Personable guy,” Rusty said, looking after him. “Very personable.”

Hardy picked up his fork. “I don’t think he likes you.”

With two shrimp cocktails, two beers and a cup of coffee inside him, Rusty felt good, but Hardy wasn’t being much company. Abe had been gone about a half hour. Rusty moved his chair back into the shade of the umbrella over their table. It was still hot, but the sun was moving lower.

“What’s taking him so long?”

“Think about it? You in a hurry?”

Rusty smiled. “No, I guess not. But he could’ve just taken me straight in.”

“Not really. He had a little explaining.” He looked up the street. “Here they come.”

A couple of guardia with their green uniforms and submachine guns were following a few steps behind Glitsky. Next to him walked a very tall, skinny man in a black suit, white shirt, electric-blue tie.

“A regular party,” Rusty said.

The guardia stood on the sidewalk. Glitsky and the tall man pulled up chairs. “This is Lieutenant Mantrillo,” Abe said. He turned to Hardy. “We’ve been having a nice talk.”

Up close, Mantrillo’s face was sallow and pocked. He pulled a pair of handcuffs from his pocket and threw them onto the table. Several other patrons looked over.

“Do you speak English?” Rusty asked.

Mantrillo nodded. “Pretty good.”

He smiled and pointed a finger at Hardy. “This guy’s got a gun on him. Right now. Under that jacket.”

Mantrillo’s black eyes flared in his sad face. Good, Rusty thought, it was the reaction he had hoped for. Mantrillo turned to Hardy, back to Glitsky, who shook his head wearily.

“He came with us voluntarily,” Abe said, “like I told you.”

Rusty was getting into the performance. He shook his head back and forth. “No! Check him! I came with them because I thought it was my only chance to get away from them. They’ve had a gun on me all day!” Rusty met Mantrillo’s eyes. “Lieutenant, they’ve got the gun. They’re breaking your laws, not me.”

Damn, he was thinking, I am good. Just like in court. He looked again at Hardy. “Please, check him.”

Mantrillo didn’t have to move. Hardy stood up, unsnapped a few buttons, and lifted his jacket away from his body. He turned all the way around. “Lieutenant, I don’t know what he’s talking about,” Hardy said. He looked down at Rusty. “Too many beers, buddy. Ain’t no gun here.”

Mantrillo was pushing up, reaching for the handcuffs.

“Let’s go,” he said. “We will get the…”

But it was impossible! Hardy had the gun. He had been with him the whole time except…

“The bathroom!” he cried out. “He left it in the bathroom!”

Hardy smiled at him. Rusty whirled, or tried to whirl, to run back and check for himself-Hardy had stashed the gun to set him up for this-but Mantrillo grabbed him by his good wrist.

He heard Glitsky say, “The poor boy’s deluded.”

Mantrillo was starting to pull him around, get the other wrist. “Let’s go.” Roughly now.

He pulled back, came free. “No! No, you can’t do this-”

He backed up into another table. The customer turned around. “Hey, watch it!”

Hardy was coming around the side of him, cutting him off. He stepped forward and grabbed a knife from the table with his good hand. He tipped the table up, spilling everything, shoving it at Glitsky and Mantrillo. He swung the knife at Hardy. The guardia had come up into the eating area, behind Mantrillo. There was only one way out through the other tables, and Rusty broke for it, vaulting the low fence, sprinting up the sidewalk.