Doe finished his bottle and dropped it on the floor. “I like that,” he said. “I like that forceful shit. We need more of that around here.” He walked to the door and then turned around. “You want me to take care of B.B.?”

“Why?” the Gambler asked. “Because things on your end are running so smoothly that you have lots of extra time?”

“No,” Doe said, “because I figured you might want to keep your hands clean. But have it your way, boss.”

When Doe was gone, the Gambler rose to fix himself another drink. Fucking B.B. trying to screw him over. Why? And his efforts were so inept, it hardly mattered. An anonymous phone call. He’d lost it completely, and even if he hadn’t been conspiring against the Gambler, he’d have to go, just for safety’s sake.

So maybe there was some order in the universe, he thought. Maybe there was a way to turn liabilities into assets. And maybe, he thought, there was a way to turn Scott’s inappropriate rage into something more useful.

After his unsatisfying meeting with the Gambler, B.B. had gone out to a local McDonald’s for a strawberry milk shake and to take in the local scene. He liked to go to McDonald’s. There were always lots of happy kids getting the crappy food they loved. In his work with the Young Men’s Foundation, he saw only the unhappy boys. He liked the happy ones, too.

B.B. brought a newspaper with him but couldn’t be bothered to read it. He looked into nothingness and tried to avoid the stare of the big-eyed black kid behind the counter who acted as though he’d never seen a man drink a milk shake before. He ought to have seen it. It probably happened pretty often in here.

After nearly an hour with no one interesting to look at, B.B. went back to the hotel. He figured he ought to be thinking about the money, but that was Desiree’s job. And where was Desiree? He hadn’t heard from her all day except for one hasty phone call in which she’d said that the kid appeared to be hapless and clean, but she was going to keep tailing him. It wasn’t like her not to check in more often.

Approaching his room from the parking lot, he could see there was a piece of paper taped to his door. It was yellow, wide-lined notebook paper with torn perforation. When he pulled it free, it took a good chunk of the door’s aqua blue paint along with the tape.

It would be from the Gambler, or maybe Doe, possibly even Desiree. Instead, a clumsy, childish hand had written in scrawling letters, “Mister my Dad called and said he wont be back before Late and my little brother gone off with his aunt. Can I have that Ice Cream now, and mabey talk about some stuff that’s going on with my dad? Carl. Room 232.”

B.B. folded up the note and held it in his hands. Then he unfolded it and read it once more. He held the paper in one hand and then the other, as though he could gauge its import from its flimsy weight.

Could it be a joke? Who would play such a joke? And what would be the point? On the other hand, how would that kid know his room number? Maybe he’d asked the Indian behind the counter. The guy wasn’t supposed to give out that sort of information, but he probably didn’t know any better, since who knew what sorts of ideas about privacy they had in India, where cattle wandered in and out of people’s houses? Besides, Carl was nothing but a little kid who surely didn’t mean any harm. Carl, he thought. Carl.

B.B. went into his room and washed his face, combed his hair, and put on a little bit of aftershave. Not too much, since kids didn’t like too much, but enough so that he’d smell mature and sophisticated. That’s what boys Carl’s age wanted in a mentor. They liked to be in the presence of a grown man who knew how to talk to a boy.

Not that Carl was worth all this fuss. No reason to think he was. Back at home was Chuck Finn, and Chuck Finn would be worth the fuss. Even so, spending a little time with Carl might be productive. It would certainly be helpful to the young man, and that was why he did this work, after all. He did it for the young men, and for himself, if he was going to be honest. He liked the feeling of being helpful. And there was something else, too, something on the edge of his vision, just outside his range of hearing, a smell too vague to identify but strong enough to notice. But this wasn’t the time. Maybe next week, maybe with Chuck, but not just now.

B.B. felt as though something from the highway had soiled his suit, so he dusted himself and headed out the door, up the stairs, and around back, where he found the room. Somewhere in the distance, he heard electronic pop from someone’s room. Assholes needed to learn to keep it down. But Carl’s room was mostly quiet. The curtains were drawn, but he could see a light on inside and vaguely hear a television droning. Before knocking, he took out the note and read it once more, making sure he had the room right and that he hadn’t misunderstood the boy’s intentions. No, there could be no misunderstanding. He’d been invited.

B.B. knocked firmly yet kindly. At least he hoped it sounded firm but kind. In the distance he heard a voice say that he should come in. He tried the handle and found it unlocked, so he pushed it open.

On the bed he saw a yellow toy tractor, so he knew he was in the right place. But no sign of Carl and, inexplicably, sheets of translucent plastic were covering the carpet. “Hello,” he called out.

“I’ll be right there,” came the voice, high and childish. B.B. felt himself smiling for just an instant. He took another step inside and looked around. It was like every other motel room, but strangely neat for a place where two boys had been alone all day. The bed was made, no clothes around, no toys but the tractor. Most of the lights were off, and the TV, which was tuned to a sitcom, flashed blue into the gloom. The laugh track erupted as someone did something, and B.B. took a step closer to see what was so funny.

Then it struck him. The voice that called to him, it didn’t sound like the boy from the pool. That boy hadn’t sounded quite so young, quite so childish. In fact, the more he thought about it, the less that voice had sounded like a child’s. It sounded like someone imitating a child.

Then he heard the door close behind him.

B.B. spun around and saw one of the Gambler’s assholes sitting there. The fat one. A rank odor like piss wafted up. The kid’s piggy eyes were wide with excitement, and he had a kind of openmouthed grin, as though he’d just issued the coup de grâce to a piñata. And B.B. knew, he fundamentally knew, that this grinning asshole was the least of his worries.

He turned and saw the other one, Ronny Neil. Ronny Neil also had a good-size grin going on. In addition, he had a wooden baseball bat with a fair number of dents in it, dents that suggested it had been used for something other than drives to left field.

“You sick fucking pervert,” Ronny Neil said.

The baseball bat arced high over his head, and B.B. raised his hands to protect himself, knowing even as he did it that his hands weren’t going to do him one bit of good.