“Whatever pleases you, Señora.”

For several moments Mary watched Altagracia, a suitcase in each hand, descend the stairway that seemed to hang in space above treetops-moving so slowly-Mary wanting to hurry her, half-expecting Andres to appear in the hall below. She went into her bedroom, dialed Moran’s number and asked for him.

A voice she has never heard before said, “He’s gone…”

“Do you know where I can reach him?”

“… probably never to return.”

“Please,” Mary said, “it’s important.”

The voice changed, brightening. “Oh, is this Mary?… Mary, Nolen Tyner. How you doing? We never met, have we?”

“Nolen, can you tell me where he is?”

“Yeah, he’s on his way to your place.”

“He can’t come here.”

“Almost my exact words,” Nolen said, “but you know George, that quiet type. You get him riled he’s a hard charger. Listen-”

“I have to go,” Mary said.

“Okay, but when we have some free time let’s all get together. How’s that sound to you?”

Moran jumped lanes, cutting in and out of the freeway traffic poking along in the rain, took 95 all the way to the end, followed the curve into South Dixie and didn’t stop till he got to Le Jeune, where he turned into a service station. The attendant was sitting at his desk inside.

“Fill it with regular, okay?”

The guy was adding or entering credit-card receipts, taking his time.

“No, make it ten bucks,” and added, to get the guy moving, “I’m in an awful hurry.”

The attendant, an older guy in greasy coveralls, said, “Everybody’s in a hurry. Slow down, you’ll live longer.”

Moran said, “If I had time I’d explain to you it’s just the other way around.” It amazed him that he was fairly calm. Doing. The guy gave him a strange look as he went out. Moran stood at the pay phone. He knew the number by heart, 442-2300. Then wondered if he should call 911 instead, the emergency number. Which one would an anonymous caller dial? Moran wasn’t sure. The idea had come to him on the freeway-suddenly there in his head without any hard thinking-and it was a zinger: a way to spring Mary without a confrontation with Andres and a way to blow Nolen’s plan at the same time. Christ, and now he wasn’t sure which number to call. He said to himself, Just do it. And dialed 442-2300.

The male voice said, “Coral Gables Police,” and a name that sounded like “Sergeant Roscoe speaking.”

Moran said, “Sergeant, I want to report a bomb that’s gonna go off.”

“Who is this speaking, please?”

“It’s an anonymous call, you dink. The bomb’s at Seven-hundred Arvida Parkway; I think you better get over there.”

“Sir, may I have your name and number, please?”

“Where the dock blew, asshole. The house’s going next.”

There was a pause at Coral Gables Police Headquarters.

“This bomb,” Sergeant Roscoe or whatever his name was said, “can you tell me what type it is and where it’s located?”

“Jesus Christ, the fucking house is going up, people’re in it and you’re asking me where the bomb is! Get over there and find it, for Christ sake!” Then added, for a touch of local color, “Viva libertad! Muerte a de Boya! You got it?” And hung up.

Jiggs Scully got a kick out of these guys that displayed pictures of themselves taken with politicians, celebrities, dignitaries-showing you the class of people they hung out with. Jimmy Cap did the same thing. The only difference, his pictures were taken with stand-up comics in golf outfits, horse breeders and a couple famous jockeys, five-eight Jimmy Cap with his arm around the little guys’ shoulders. Jiggs noticed that Latin-American military gave themselves height by wearing those peaked caps that swooped way up in front, even higher than the ones the Nazis had worn; which showed you even your most hardassed rightwingers had some showboat in them.

He said to de Boya, “I was you, General, you have a sentimental attachment for your pictures there, I’d pack ’em away till we clean this business up.”

“I don’t see how anyone can get inside,” de Boya said, sitting behind his big desk, all dressed up in a gray business suit.

“They don’t have to get in,” Jiggs said. “That’s why I want to take a look around, see how many wires you got leading to the house and where they go. The word on the street, the house’s next.”

“I question that,” de Boya said.

“I know you do, but what if that repair guy wasn’t Southern Bell? It don’t mean anything he showed a card, you get those printed ten bucks a hundred. No, the vibes-you know what vibes are, General? Like an itch, a feeling you get. The vibes tell me we’re sitting on a ticklish situation here without much in the way of protection. I send you a couple of pros and-I don’t mean to sound critical, general, you’re the man in charge, but they aren’t doing us much good in Pompano Beach.”

The general looked like he had a bad stomach, bothered by gas, and the present situation wasn’t going to relieve it any. A very emotional people. He saw de Boya look up: somebody all of a sudden rattling off the Spanish. Jiggs looked around to see Corky, mouth going a mile a minute, telling de Boya something that pulled him right out of his chair.

Altagracia appeared in the bedroom doorway, timid, not certain if she was announcing good news or bad. She said, “Señora, he’s here,” and now was startled and had to get out of the way.

Mary was moving as the maid spoke, out the door past her into Andres’s bedroom, past the two suitcases she hadn’t used, still lying on the floor, to the front window.

Moran’s old-model white Mercedes was in the drive, behind a red and white Cadillac and Andres’s Rolls. Mary pressed closer to the window, the glass streaked with rain, blurred, and saw Moran out of the car, Corky moving out from the house toward him. Mary left the window; she dodged past Altagracia again in the hallway and stopped.

“My bag, the small one.”

“I get it,” the maid said.

It gave Mary the moment she needed to take a breath, collect herself. She would be forthright about this final exit, walk out with style in beige linen and if Andres said anything she might give him a look but no more than that. Altagracia came out of the bedroom with her white canvas tote. Mary slipped the strap over her shoulder.

She heard Altagracia say, “Go with God.”

Damn right. With her head up, a little haughty if she had to be. Then hesitated.

Andres appeared in the hall below, moving with purpose toward the front entrance. She saw his back and now Jiggs Scully shuffling to catch up, recognizing the man’s shapeless seersucker coat.

They were outside by the time Mary reached the foyer, on the front stoop that was a wide plank deck, low, only a step above the gravel drive. She saw Moran in a dark sweater in the fine mist of rain, Corky raising both hands to push him or hold him off. Now, Mary thought. And walked out the door past Scully, bumping him with the tote hanging from her shoulder, not looking at him or at Andres as she stepped past them to the gravel drive. Corky turned, hearing or sensing her. But she was looking at Moran now less than ten feet away, his eyes calm, drops of moisture glistening in his beard. She wanted to run to him and see his arms open.

Andres said, “Stop there.”

But he was much too late. Mary walked up to Moran and said, “Boy, am I glad to see you,” in a tone so natural it amazed her.

His gaze flicked past her and back, still composed. “You ready?”

“My bags are in the garage. The door that’s raised.”

He looked over at the garage wing, an extension of the house, three of the doors in place, one raised open to reveal gleams of chrome and body metal in the dim interior. Moran took his time, listening, hoping to hear sirens coming for him twice in the same day-his first success giving him faith to try it again-aching now to hear squad cars screaming down Cutler Road toward Arvida; Mary looking at him like he was crazy. What was he standing there for?