“Who knows? They could be shorthanded… or over budget… maybe the rest are coming tomorrow…”

“Or maybe they don’t want anyone else around,” Joey challenged.

“C’mon, now – you really believe that?”

Joey stopped to think. Through the receiver, she could hear Gallo and DeSanctis arguing.

“When Shep was killed, they lost a former agent,” Noreen pointed out. “Ten bucks says that’s why they’re keeping it personal.”

“I hope you’re right,” Joey said, pulling the receiver in close. “But if I were Charlie and Oliver, I’d be praying we’re the ones who find them first.”

Lying on my stomach and hiding from the morning sun, I hug my pillow like a best friend and refuse to open my eyes. The futon’s about as comfortable as a sack of doorknobs, but it’s still not as bad as the garbage truck outside, which is scraping against my eardrums like broken glass.

“Clear!” a garbage man shouts as the truck churns up the block.

I roll over. My left arm’s asleep. And just as I blink myself into the day, I swear… for the tiniest of seconds… I have no idea where I am. That’s when I open my eyes.

Rank beige carpet. Stale bug-spray smell. Rotting vinyl floor in the filthy kitchenette. Damn. The sight alone floods it back. Shep… the money… Duckworth. I was hoping it was a bad dream. It’s not. It’s our life.

Next to me, Charlie’s still asleep, cuddling with his own pillow and content in his drool pool. I pull the tattered blanket up to his chin and make my way to the shower.

Ten minutes later, it’s time for Charlie to do the same.

“Charlie! Get up!” I call from the bathroom.

No response.

“C’mon, Charlie! Get up!”

He shrugs it off and finally rolls over to face me. Rubbing the crust from his eyes, he doesn’t remember where he is either. Then he looks around and realizes we’re in the same bad dream. “Crap,” he mutters.

“There’s no hot water,” I tell him, drying my Johnny Cash hair with a fistful of left-behind paper towels.

“I’ll be sure to drop a note in the landlord’s suggestion box.”

In New York, they call it a studio. Here, it’s an efficiency. To me, it’s a no-bedroom rathole. But last night, when we were searching through the neighborhood at two in the morning, it was exactly what we needed: located on a side street, a “For Rent” sign out front, and a light on in the apartment marked “Manager.” Anywhere else, they would’ve been suspicious and called the cops. But on the sketchy outskirts of Miami’s beyond-trendy South Beach, we’re business as usual. Between the drug dealers and the illegal foreigners, they’re well accustomed to tenants who show up at two A.M.

“C’mon, we should get going,” I say, pulling on a pair of fresh underwear. “I want to get there early.”

He sits up in bed and rolls his eyes. “What else is new?”

Stepping back into the main room, I finish getting dressed. Outside, the sun is shining, but we can barely see through the papers that cover the windows. Last night, in the dark, Charlie thought they were broken vertical blinds. Today, we see reality. Ripped pages from a free Budweiser girls-in-bikinis calendar Scotch-taped to every window. Whoever was here last didn’t want to be seen. Neither do we. The calendar stays where it is.

“Let’s go, Charlie – you’re up,” I say as I move back to the bathroom. I turn on the shower. That’s what mom used to do to get us moving.

“Those tricks don’t work anymore,” he warns me.

Ten minutes later, he paper-towels himself dry and jumps into his own new pair of boxers.

“All set?” I ask.

“Almost…” He reaches back into the gym bag and feels around for something inside.

“What’re you looking for?” I ask even though I know the answer. The metal box with Gallo’s gun.

“Nothing,” Charlie tells me, digging even deeper. Unable to find it, he starts yanking clothes from the bag. Within seconds, the bag’s empty. “Ollie – the box… it’s not here…”

“Relax,” I say. He looks over his shoulder, and I pull up the edge of my untucked shirt. I’ve got the gun stuffed in the waist of my pants.

“Since when’re you-?”

“Can we go now?” I interrupt.

Charlie cocks his head at my tone. “Let me guess,” he says. “There’s a new sheriff in town.”

I don’t bother to answer. Turning around, I head outside. Charlie’s a few steps behind. Ready or not, Duckworth – here we come.

“What’re you doing?” Charlie calls out, chasing me as I make a sharp right on Sixth Street and accelerate up the block. Straight ahead, early-rising holiday tourists and late-to-work locals crisscross along Washington Avenue. Here on the side streets, we’re safe. Half a block up, we’re out in the open. Even Charlie wouldn’t take that risk, which is why he grabs the back of my shirt and tugs me to a sudden halt. “Are you drinking suntan lotion?” he asks. “I thought we were going to Duckwor-?”

“Don’t say it,” I cut him off, scanning the block around us. “Trust me, this is just as important.”

Wriggling my arm free, I hustle to the corner, where a long row of newspaper vending machines stretches up the block. Miami Herald, el Herald, USA Today… and the one I fly toward – the New York Times. I shove four coins in the machine’s throat, pull down on the door, and reach for a paper from the middle of the stack.

“Why don’t you ever take the top one?” Charlie asks.

Ignoring the little-brother challenge, I grab my middle paper.

“No, you’re absolutely right,” he continues. “The top one’s got cooties.” As the newspaper machine slams shut, he shakes his head.

“Let’s go,” I call out, rushing back down Sixth Street. As we walk, I open the paper and flip through the front section.

“Are we in there?” Charlie asks.

I keep flipping, scouring for any mention of yesterday’s events. No money; no embezzlement; no murder. To be honest, I’m not surprised. Lapidus is keeping this on lockdown from the press. Still, some things run every day. I stop on the side street and fold the paper back. Right at Obituaries.

“Lemme see,” Charlie says, stepping next to me.

Standing under a dried-out palm tree, I hold the left half of the page; Charlie holds the right. We both find it alphabetically. On most days, I read and he skims. Today it’s reverse. “Graves – Shepard… 37… of Brooklyn… Vice President of Security… Greene & Greene… survived by wife, Sherry… mother, Bonnie… sister, Claire… memorial service to be announced…”

“I didn’t know he was married,” Charlie says, already lost in Shep’s life. But the more he reads on… “Those revisionist bastards,” he blurts. “It doesn’t even say he was in the Service.”

“Charlie…”

“Don’t Charlie me! You didn’t know him, Ollie – that was his life!”

“I’m not saying it wasn’t – I’m just asking you to pay attention for once! This isn’t about his résumé… it’s about what’s missing from the picture.” Catching myself, I turn it down to a whisper. “Three hundred million gets lifted, and it doesn’t even make the gossip columns? A former Secret Service agent is shot in the chest and no one reports a word!? Don’t you see what they’re doing? For these guys, a fake obit is the easy part. Whatever they say, people believe it. And whatever really happened… it’s all being erased. That’s what they’re gonna do with us, Charlie. They shake the Etch-A-Sketch and the whole picture disappears. Then they write in whatever they want. Suspects found with millions – investigation points to murder. That’s the new reality, Charlie. And by the time they’re done scribbling, there’ll be no way for us to change it.”

I stare Charlie down and let it burrow into his brain. At the exact same moment, we both head toward Tenth Street. Duckworth’s only a few blocks away.