Vincent said, “Go ahead.”

“You know Mrs. Donovan.”

“I met her once.”

“Made a point to meet her. Maybe score, catch her on an off day she forgot to tie her knees together. This’s in San Juan. Our story has taken us down to sunny Puerto Rico. True?”

Vincent nodded. It was moving right along.

“You’re there on a medical leave. Some dink shot you on the street.”

It was moving faster than expected. “How’d you know that?”

“Hey, I know what you prob’ly had for breakfast. Couple beers. You kidding me? I could see you coming all the way down the fucking street. Let’s get back to San Juan. You must have some cop friends there. Not incidentally the PR cops being world-class shakedown artists. You guys exchange notes? How to make it on the side? You could book Spade’s Isla Verde, hold a convention, bring in cops from all over… So what happened, let’s say the cops here notified the PR cops about little Iris, how she took the dive eighteen floors down to the street. Jesus. They’re looking for next-a-kin and they tell you about it down there and you say to yourself, hey, somebody fucked up. Since you prob’ly knew the type of work Iris was into… How’m I doing so far?”

“Not bad.”

“Not bad, your ass. That’s exactly how you got onto it. They put you in touch with some PRs up here, guys that know Atlantic City, how it works, what goes on in the dead a night. You get some names, some of the bad guys. You get lucky, see Benavides hanging around and you check him out with Miami. They give you his flight home, read his sheet to you-one of your pals in the DEA. You make a few assumptions and come running into my office, see if you can make out.”

Vincent listened, nodding, entertained and amazed; the guy talking about making assumptions.

“So what’d you put together?”

“You were at the apartment,” Vincent said. “With Iris.”

“When? Come on, gimme a date.”

“The night before she was killed.”

“The night before?” Jackie frowned. “I don’t get it.”

“You were there. So were these other people.”

“Yeah, but how’s that worth anything? The night before may as well be the year before. What’s the difference? I mean even if there was a connection who’re you gonna get to say we were there?”

Vincent didn’t answer.

“Whoever was with her the night she was killed, that’s the guy you want to shake down, for Christ sake.”

“Who do you think it was?”

Jackie took a moment. He said, “I don’t believe this. What do you do down in Miami, you raid bingo parties? You been at this long, or what? You come in here to rip me off, now you’re asking my advice. As my dear friend Joan Rivers says, ‘Can we talk?’ I’ll give you the word, hotshot, tell you exactly where you stand here. You fuck with any those guys on your list you may as well kiss your ass goodbye, you’re done. You fuck with me-watch, I got this magic act I put on. You watching?”

Vincent nodded. The guy looked so small, his round shoulders hunched behind the big desk, his array of stars smiling down at him.

“I rub my balls and say the magic words, ‘Abracadabra, send in Jabara.’ And who appears?” Jackie looked toward the door to his office. “None other than Moosleh Hajim himself. Known to all his many fans as the Moose.”

Vincent turned in his chair, starting to rise. He recognized DeLeon Johnson from newspaper photos, television interviews, saw the smile coming toward him, the Moose much bigger in real life, looking seven feet tall today in his nifty light-tan suit. Vincent was standing, ready to offer his hand. He saw the smile. He saw the forearm coming at him and was able to turn his head but that was all, it came at him so fast. That forearm slammed into him and he saw pink lights popping, went over the chair to land on his hands and knees, head ringing, stunned. He heard Jackie say, “Get him out a here… Hey, his bag too. Throw him out’n the street.” Vincent felt himself lifted, held upright. In a few moments he was able to walk. They went through the outer office to the hall and toward the bank of gold elevators by the reception desk, the Moose holding the canvas bag in one hand, Vincent in the other.

As they waited for an elevator Vincent said, “I’m glad I’m not a quarterback,” closing and opening his eyes, trying to focus on the door’s bas-relief: a gold sunburst with a face in it. He said, “That’s what it’s like to get sacked, uh?”

DeLeon said, “I wouldn’t know. I never been the sackee.”

“Five times unassisted against the Lions, Eric Hipple. I was at that game.”

DeLeon turned his head without moving his body, looked down his shoulder at Vincent, but didn’t say anything. A gold door opened. DeLeon looked at him again as they got on the elevator and Vincent said, “If there was a ref in there you would’ve gotten fifteen yards. You know that, don’t you?” Going down in the elevator Vincent asked him how his knee was. DeLeon said it was pretty good. He said, “I can’t kick.” Vincent said, “Good.”

During his career in the NFL, defensive end for the Miami Dolphins, there were some quarterbacks DeLeon Johnson helped up after dumping them on their ass and there were some he left stretched out on the turf. The ones he helped up, some would give him a sad look as he pulled them to their feet, or shake their heads like to say, shit, why you picking on me today? There were one or two might comment with a straight face, ask him why he didn’t stay in Africa, man, play with real lions. This man, Vincent Mora, was like that. In the elevator he said he never missed a Dolphin home game. It seemed he didn’t take getting decked personally. They got to the lobby he said, “You know, what I planned to do was check in. But I never got to mention it.”

“This hotel, you mean?”

“Yeah, do some gambling.”

Right here DeLeon saw Mrs. Donovan across the lobby by the gift shop, talking to a security man with a walkie.

DeLeon said to Vincent, “Got a stake, huh? How much, twenty-five dollars?”

“Let me have the bag,” Vincent said.

“You keep all your spending money in this?”

Vincent said, “Over here,” going to the bell captain’s counter, nobody there at the moment.

Mrs. Donovan was coming this way now and not, DeLeon believed, by chance. The executive-floor receptionist had picked up her phone as they got to the elevators; would have called somebody who got hold of the lobby security man who then told Mrs. Donovan, her network keeping her informed. Was anything she didn’t know, it would surprise DeLeon.

Here he was a witness, being sure of this fact, and she walked up and surprised the hell out of him. Not when she said, “Can I be of help?” But when this man Vincent gave her a big grin and she said, “Well, how are you? It’s so good to see you again.” Meaning it. She didn’t just know him; there was more to it:

Vincent telling her, “I’ve been looking for you. I drove down to your house yesterday.”

She telling him, “Yeah, Dominga said you stopped by. I’m sorry we missed you.” Then telling him she was terribly sorry about his friend, Iris. That was awful. Telling him she and Tommy had both spoken to the police several times and that the police didn’t seem to be getting anywhere.

The man Vincent said, “I talked to them too.”

She said, “Oh? You did?” Little hesitation there, like she was half-expecting him to hit her with a surprise. DeLeon caught it. Saw her maybe relax a tiny bit as the man said, “They’re working on it.” The woman said it was a shame, young girl like that… This good-looking stylish woman, top of her class, could be sympathetic; she could scare the shit out of Jackie, emasculate her hubby; and she could act sweet as could be, giving Vincent a big-eyed look now. “It’s so nice to see you again. Where are you staying?”

“I was thinking of coming here…”

“Well, we’d love to have you.”

“I don’t know if it’s okay.”