“Liver and onions. Or the Dover sole. I don’t know anything about you,” Vincent said. “You started playing piano when you were about nine…”

“Eight.”

“You grew up in New York.”

“New Orleans. I played trumpet in the Tulane marching band… I prefer the cornet.”

“You fooled me. I thought you had kind of a Brooklyn accent. Just a little. You played the trumpet, huh?”

“You making conversation?”

“I’m interested.”

“You know something you’re not telling me. You’re trying to act cute and you don’t know how.”

“I feel good, that’s all.”

“Why?”

“Well, I had a pretty good day. How was yours? You get an audition?”

“I’m pretty sure I’m in at Bally’s, if I want it. But I’d have to go with a guitar and drummer they want me to use. Which is okay, I guess. At least I’ll be working.”

“You like it here, Atlantic City?”

“Compared to what? The Holiday Inn in Orlando? If I can play just a little of my music for an audience that listens part of the time and isn’t too drunk, that’s as good as it gets in a bar. Most of what I have to play, you take it out of a can and heat it over a low fire. Some of it’s okay, some riffs you can have fun with, fool around. But you do the same kind of pop stuff every set, the computer music, key in a little bossa nova-I feel like an engineer, I ought to be wearing a white lab coat with a row of pencils in the pocket. Once in a while, I play with my own guys we throw the charts away and break loose, take some chances. Who’s doing that and getting paid? Nobody. McCoy Tyner, Gil Evans, maybe a few other guys. Let the audience keep up if they can-why not? They can tap their toes if they want, but it’s a head trip too. Where’re we going-who knows? Let’s find out, feel it and play it, look for an opening and break out… Do you know what I mean? The manager gets nasty, I go, ‘Wait a minute, they came to hear me play, right?’ The manager goes, ‘They came to drink and be entertained, but mostly they came to drink.’ And hands me a bunch of requests that read like Michael Jackson’s greatest hits. So… What was the question?”

“I’d like to hear you play sometime,” Vincent said, “doing Linda Moon instead of Carmen Miranda. I got to admit, though, I enjoyed that.”

“You would,” Linda said. “I’m surprised you don’t wear a double-knit suit with white stitching. Cops being known for their daring fashion statements.”

“Let’s have another drink.”

“I’m ready.” She was looking him over, his new sportcoat, white cotton shirt. “You’re not a bad dresser, really.”

“I’ll take my tie off and open my shirt, you want me to.”

“No, you won’t, you’re too conservative.” She raised her eyes to his. “It’s okay. I like a change now and then.”

Driving back to Linda’s rooming house Vincent said, “I never saw a skinny girl eat so much. Where do you put it?”

“I’m not that skinny,” Linda said. She looked at a street sign as they passed it and said, “I think you should’ve turned,” though didn’t seem to care. “Are you a little high?”

“Just right.”

“I get mellow when I drink. I mel-low.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“All the streets are named after states…”

“North and south.”

“Except they aren’t in order, they’re all mixed up. North Carolina, Pennsylvania… Shouldn’t we have turned?”

Vincent glanced at the rearview mirror, at headlights and reflections on wet pavement. “He’s with us again.”

Linda turned in the seat to look back. “The same car?”

“Yellow Monte Carlo… I don’t think I should take you home. He probably saw me pick you up…”

She was quiet a moment. “You’re saying, what, I should stay with you?”

“I think it’d be safer.”

“For who? If the guy’s after you why would it be safer for me to be with you?”

“You don’t want to go home,” Vincent said, “and I don’t think you should be alone. They’re bad guys.”

“I think you hired somebody to follow you. Is that it, Vincent, to get me in your room?”

He said, “Let me tell you about Ricky Catalina and what a sweetheart he is.” He gave her a profile, a brief one on the way to the Holmhurst, told about meeting Ricky and taking him to Gardner’s Basin, but didn’t go into detail or mention the blue canvas bag.

As they walked up to the hotel entrance Linda said, “He’s after you because you broke his car window?… Why did you?”

They went inside. Vincent turned to look through the glass door, in time to see the yellow Chevy creep past.

“Get his respect,” Vincent said. “Show him I have a violent nature.”

“Is it fun,” Linda asked, “being a cop?”

“Some times more than others. I’ve never given a traffic ticket or busted a hooker.”

On the way up the stairs Linda said, “You forgot your bag, you checked at Spade’s.”

“I’m leaving it there for safekeeping.”

She gave him her narrow look. “You’re not telling me everything, are you? I won’t ask what’s in the bag.”

“It’s up to you.”

“What’s in it?”

“Twelve thousand eight hundred and seventy dollars.”

“Oh, my God.”

They walked down the third-floor hallway, silent.

“You didn’t win it.”

“In a way I did.”

She stopped. “That’s why he’s after you.”

Vincent brought her along by the arm. “He thinks I probably have it, but he’s not sure.”

“He’s tailing you to find out.”

“All he has to do is ask.”

“What would you tell him?”

“I don’t know what he’s talking about.”

“Wait-whose is it?”

“I told you, collection money. Numbers, sports bets, card games-all illegal, the sources.”

Linda said, “Wow,” her voice hushed. “But you can’t keep it. Can you?”

“Why not? I turn it in the state keeps it, or it goes in the Police Recreational Fund. But they’re not gonna return it, we know that. And we know Ricky’s not gonna go to the cops and file a complaint. So…”

“What’re you going to do with it?”

“I’ve got an idea… But you can have some if you want.”

“Jesus, Vincent-”

He got his key out, opened the door, touched Linda to go in ahead of him. He closed the door, double-locked it. When he turned Linda was close enough to touch, her coat off her shoulders, holding it, looking at the polished stainless-steel urn standing on the dresser.

She said, “Is it going to bother you?”

“What?”

“Iris being here.”

His hands moved over her shoulders to take her coat, get it out from between them.

“I’ll put Iris in a drawer.”

Teddy opened his eyes, saw the roof interior right there over him and thought he was in Monroe Ritchie’s bunk. Nope, he was parked down at the end of Pennsylvania Avenue, the windshield, the first floor lit up, the two upper floors dark except for a couple of windows. The Datsun was still parked in front. It was ten past three by the luminous dial in the dashboard. His mom had probably got up to make wee-wee and looked in his room. He’d have to have a story for her. How about-“See, I had to wait till this fella was asleep before I went up to his room and shot him.” And his mom would say, “Oh, you.” But there was the idea, the way it came to him just waking up, and he thought, You could look into it. You been fooling around all this time, you gonna do it or not? The woman could be there with him or she went home, took a cab. Would it matter? No, he didn’t think it would. She could watch. Jesus. That idea excited him a little-the woman laying there naked, watching-the way the idea of pushing Iris naked off the balcony had excited him. Yes, he was getting excited; he could feel it.

He opened his camera case, got the Colt automatic but didn’t stick it in his pants till he was out of the car. Nice evening. Morning now. Should he lock the doors? No-what if he had to leave in a hurry? Should he have the motor running then? No-what if somebody stole the car while he was in there? There was a lot to think about in a deal like this; you didn’t just walk in and shoot somebody. He smoothed down his suede jacket over his gun and approached the hotel. The bar looked busy. He entered the lobby. Nobody around. And you couldn’t see into the bar from here, there was a partition.