“You’re looking fine, Mr. Pawkins, real fine,” Ulysses said while serving him. “You look like you’re in the game, and you’ve got to be in the game if you’re gonna win.”

Pawkins laughed at Ulysses’ favorite bit of philosophy. “You are right, my friend. I am in the game, and I intend to win. Let me have the check.”

Pawkins stepped outside. It was an unusually cool day for that time of year in Washington, with a cloudless, cobalt-blue sky, and a breeze light enough to ruffle hair but brisk enough at times to tease the cheeks. He left his car where he’d parked it in the Kennedy Center’s underground garage and walked up New Hampshire to the Watergate complex, passing through the central open space with its gushing fountains, inviting benches, and tranquil greenery, until reaching the entrance to the hotel. He was greeted by the doorman. “Hello, sir.”

“Hello,” said Pawkins. “Beautiful day.”

“Yes, sir, it most certainly is that.”

He meandered the length of the lobby in the direction of the elevators, and beyond them the check-in desk on the left, the entrance to the bar on the right. He’d almost reached the elevators when he saw Josephson emerge from one. Pawkins pretended to admire a print on the wall, but his peripheral vision took in the little Englishman. Josephson came halfway to where Pawkins stood, his eyes going from one side of the lobby to the other. He kept checking his watch as he retraced his steps, then turned and again walked in Pawkins’ direction.

Pawkins looked at his watch. Three forty-five. What was he doing in the lobby? Pawkins was expected at four. Josephson should be in his room awaiting a phone call.

Josephson passed Pawkins this time and stepped outside, where he leaned against a column and drew deep breaths. Pawkins took the opportunity to sit in a yellow slipcovered chair that afforded him a view of the lifts, but that was partially obscured by a large potted plant. He had to smile; he felt like a movie version of a hotel’s house detective spying on a guest.

Josephson returned inside and walked to the elevators. Pawkins turned so that only his profile was visible. Not that the Brit would know what he looked like, although his photograph had made some publications at the height of the Musinski investigation. The doors slid open, Josephson stepped inside, and the doors closed behind him.

Pawkins waited a few minutes before going to a house phone and asking to be connected to Mr. Josephson’s room.

“Hello?” Josephson sounded breathless. His voice was barely above a squeak.

“Josephson. This is Pawkins.”

“Are you…? Where are you?”

“Downstairs. I’ve been watching you.”

“You have? Are you-are you coming up?”

“Yes. I know your room number. I’ll be there in a few minutes. You are alone, I assume.”

“Yes, of course I am. Why would I-”

Pawkins lowered the phone into its cradle and stepped into a waiting elevator, pressing his elbow against the holstered.22 as the doors closed. The doors opened at Josephson’s floor. Pawkins walked down the long, red-carpeted hallway until he stood outside Josephson’s door. Was the Brit observing him through the peephole? He smiled for Josephson’s benefit, and knocked. The door opened.

“Mr. Pawkins,” Josephson said.

Pawkins ignored the greeting and walked past him into the center of the room. He’d stayed at the Watergate Hotel on a few occasions. This wasn’t one of its most expensive rooms. He went to the window and looked out over the city, aware of Josephson behind him. He heard the door close, and sensed Josephson nearing him across the thick carpeting.

“So,” Pawkins said, not turning. “What is it you want?”

“My money. You stole my money.”

“Is that so?”

Now the former detective slowly turned and faced Josephson, who stood only a few feet from him.

“Tell me how I stole your money.”

“You…you took the musical scores from Aaron Musinski. He and I were partners. We were to share the money from them.”

“I see.”

Pawkins went to a small couch. “Sit down,” he said, pointing to a chair across from a coffee table. Josephson did as he’d been told. Pawkins leaned forward, a smile on his face. “Let’s get a few things straight here, Mr. Josephson. I don’t care what you claim I did. I don’t care whether you lost money, as you claim. I came here as a favor. No,” he said, waving his hand, “I came because I was curious to see what a conniving little Englishman looks like. Now I know.”

Josephson got to his feet. “I have the proof,” he said, going to the manila envelope on the desk, extracting its contents, and waving them at Pawkins. “It’s all here,” he said, agitated, sweating, eyes darting back and forth from Pawkins to the window, to the door, back to Pawkins. “I know what you did. I hired an investigator. I know how you killed Aaron to get the scores and went to Paris to sell them to Saibrón, how the money went to your secret bank account in the Cayman Islands, how you-”

He stopped in mid-sentence as Pawkins calmly pulled the.22 from his holster. Josephson’s eyes widened at the sight of the weapon, which Pawkins pointed directly at him. “Give me that stuff,” he commanded.

Josephson pressed the papers to his chest and stepped back.

“Come on, come on, hand it over. I want to see this so-called evidence you say you have.”

“Please, put that away,” Josephson pleaded.

Pawkins looked down at the weapon. “This?” He laughed. “Nice little gun, Mr. Josephson. Doesn’t make a lot of noise, and leaves a relatively small hole.” The smile left his face. “Give me those papers, goddamn it, before I show you how small a hole it really does make.”

Josephson tentatively approached the table and dropped the papers as though they were aflame.

“That’s better,” Pawkins said. He sat back, the papers in his lap, and scanned them, the.22 resting casually in his right hand. At one point he looked up and said, “Sit down, Mr. Josephson. Relax. You have anything to drink? Be a good host and pour us something.”

“I don’t have-”

“Sure you do, in the mini-bar over there. You have ice?”

“Yes, I-”

“Good. Scotch will be fine, just a few cubes.”

“I can call security and-”

“You touch that phone and it’ll be the last thing you ever touch. Add a splash of soda.”

Pawkins kept his eyes going from the papers to Josephson, who’d taken a mini-bottle of Scotch from the self-serve bar and poured it into a glass. His hands trembled so much that some of the liquor ran down the outside of the glass. He approached Pawkins with the drink, but Pawkins said, “Ice, Mr. Josephson. And a little soda. Come on, now, you’re an Englishman. You know how to make a proper drink, even for an American.”

After sipping the drink and examining the papers, Pawkins tossed the sheets on the coffee table and stood. Josephson sat in the chair, rigid, small sounds escaping his throat, his eyes never straying from the weapon in Pawkins’ hand. Pawkins came around behind Josephson, who also started to get up, but Pawkins’ firm hand on his shoulder kept him pinned to the chair. He pressed the barrel of the.22 against Josephson’s temple. “Nice drink, Mr. Josephson. Thanks.”

“Please, I only wants what’s fair,” the Brit said. He was almost crying.

“What’s fair, huh? I like that,” said Pawkins. “I believe in fairness, too. I bet you didn’t know that, did you?”

“I-I’m sure you’re a fair and reasonable man,” Josephson said, his voice quavering. “Don’t you see, the money I would have enjoyed from selling those scores was for my retirement. I’m not a rich man. I have a small shop in Mayfair and wanted to be able to retire and live decently.”

“That’s a worthy goal,” Pawkins said, pressing the barrel a little harder against Josephson’s head. “That’s what I want, too.” He laughed.

“We have a lot in common.” He now faced Josephson. “So I’ll make you a deal.”