"No, I don't see it."

"You picked up one of my announcements? You must have been right behind me when I passed them out."

"I talk to the guy you work for, Emil?"

"Oh, uh-huh. Yeah, I was Emil's box-jumper for almost four years."

"You were his what, his box?…"

"His assistant. What did he say about me?"

"He tole me your number and where you live. See, I'm looking for an assistant and would like to speak to you."

"May I ask, sir, do you perform in the Miami area?"

"Yes, around here. I was a mayishan in Cuba before I come here. Manuel the Mayishan was my name. Let me ask you something. You do the sawing of the box in half trick with you inside?"

Adele paused.

"Yes?"

"How do you do that trick?"

"How do you do it?"

"Forgive me. I ask you this wanting to be sure you are experience."

"Well, I've seen it performed both ways," Adele said, " 'thin sawing' or the old Selbit method, if that's what you mean."

There was a silence before the Cuban voice said, "Yes, I see you know what you doing. I would like to come speak to you about working for me."

Adele said, "Well…" She said, "Why don't I meet you at the Cardozo, on the porch? You know where it is?"

"Yes, but you don't want me to come where you live?"

"I have to go out anyway. I can meet you in an hour. Will that be all right?"

He took a moment before saying, "Yes, all right."

And Adele hung up.

How do you do the sawing of the box in half trick?… Was he serious? He didn't know a box-jumper was an assistant. Maybe mayishans in Cuba called them something else.

The phone rang.

She'd wear shorts, show off her legs.

"Hi, this is Adele speaking."

Whoever it was hung up.

Buddy came out of Wolfie's and got in the car.

"She's home."

He turned south on to Collins and didn't say another word until they had gone ten blocks and were passing the Normandie.

"There it is. You see the guy sitting on the porch? The old ladies and one guy? You know they'll have a couple more in a car."

Foley was looking around.

"I didn't notice any."

"You know they're there."

"I'll keep my eyes open."

Buddy turned right on 10th and right again into the alley to pass behind the row of hotels. He said, "Nobody hanging out back here, that's good." They came to llth at the end of the alley and Buddy stopped.

He said to Foley, "You bring the gun?"

Foley lifted the straw bag from his lap.

"In here, with my suntan lotion and beach towel."

"You giving her some cash?"

"What I got the other day."

Buddy nodded, staring at Foley, studying him.

"I still think you ought to wear a hat."

"All the shots of me in banks I have a hat on, or a cap. I doubt anyone's seen me without one."

"Look at your watch," Buddy said.

"It's eleven-twenty. I'll be back here in half an hour, at ten of twelve. You don't show, I'll be back here at twelve-twenty. You still don't show I'll see you in thirty years."

This cafe was run by Puerto Ricans-Chino could tell by the way they spoke-but it was okay. The coffee was Cubano and they didn't bother him sitting at the counter or looking out the front window through the backward words on the glass and see the hotel almost directly across the street, the Normandie, four stories high. Jack Foley's former wife was on the second floor, in 208, maybe a room in front and she was looking out the window as he looked at the hotel. He had phoned from here. He didn't like the plan of meeting her on the porch of the Cardozo Hotel, people there, people passing by. He'd have this coffee and a little more and go up to her room to talk to her in private. What could she do?

Foley walked from the alley to Collins Avenue and stopped on the corner to watch cars creeping by in both directions, tourists taking in South Beach, or looking for a place to park. He started walking toward the hotel in the middle of the block, taking his time. Buddy was right, there'd be a car somewhere close by with two guys in it. He watched a car up ahead pull away from the curb and a Honda nose into the parking space, a woman at the wheel. He wondered if they used women on surveillance. What he'd do, walk in the hotel. If the guy on the porch followed him in, he'd start talking to whoever was behind the desk about rates for next season. Make up a story. As if he could see a room or use the men's, hang around until he could slip upstairs. He didn't think the guy on the porch would pay any attention to him. He was approaching the Honda now, the woman out of the car, standing at the parking meter in profile, feeling her pockets for change:

Blond hair, tan jacket and shoulder bag, long legs in slim jeans and heels-plain, pink medium heels that caught his eye, pink shoes, a nice touch with the jeans. The hair, the profile, made him think of Karen Sisco.

She turned from the parking meter and he was looking at Karen Sisco-it was, right there, not ten feet away, it was Karen-looking at him now, waiting. She said, "You wouldn't happen to have change, would you, for a dollar?"

Foley shifted the straw bag to his left hand, still looking at her, telling himself to keep going, don't stop, don't say a word.

But he did, he said, "Sorry." He was past her now without breaking stride, holding to the same unhurried pace, glancing around at signs, the sights, the people, but not looking back, telling himself to keep walking. It was her, all of a sudden right in front of him. He saw her and saw her eyes and for a moment, the way she was looking at him … He told himself if he looked back he'd be turned into a convict on the spot, in state blue, so don't even think of looking back. You saw her again and that's it. All you get.

Karen watched him walk past the Normandie, past the women on the porch, the agent sitting there now. She thought, No, it couldn't be. She saw Foley's face streaked with muck in bright headlights, the guard's cap hiding his eyes. She saw his mug shot in her mind like all the mug shots she'd ever seen, a criminal offender with a number, not this guy in his color-coordinated orange and bright ocher beach outfit carrying a straw bag, dark socks with those thick leather sandals. She had almost smiled and said hi, how're you doing, her hand going to her bag.

In that moment sure it was Foley. But his eyes gave no sign that he knew her and he said, "Sorry," without much expression and kept going.

She waited for him to look back. She waited until he was all the way to the end of the block, crossing the street, and when he still didn't look back, she felt a letdown, disappointment, believing that if it was Foley he would have looked back. Or he might even have stopped and said something to her. It wouldn't make sense, but didn't have to; it was a feeling she had, so it was okay. Like if she were to make a with her two hands, or he would, calling for a timeout, to give them a few minutes to finish what began in the trunk of the car. It would be okay then to say hi, how're you doing? Oh, not too bad. They stand there talking, polite to each other. That was some experience. Yes, it was. Well, we made it. He might say something about her shooting at him and she'd say yeah, well, you know… You have time for a drink? I guess we have a few minutes. They walk over to the beach, sit at a table and talk for a while, say whatever comes to mind, have another drink, talk about movies… Maybe. Why not? There would be no way to predict what they'd talk about, they'd just talk until their time was up. Well, okay then, back to work. She gets up and walks away, and if she were to look back he wouldn't be there. It would be over with, out of the way. The next time she saw him-and she would try hard to make it happen-she'd cuff his hands behind his back and take him in.

Karen walked down to the Normandie. As a courtesy she stopped at the porch railing to show the agent, a young guy she didn't know, her ID and marshal's star, saying she was going up to see Adele. The agent said, "Does Burdon know about this?"