Iris frowned at him. “Since you did it?”

“With a woman,” Teddy said. “I been away.”

Vincent took a shower that afternoon after the lunch with Lorendo Paz, thinking about what he had said outside the restaurant. “He died.” The guy who had shot him. “Lost his will to live.” Talking cop to cop, offhand, nothing to it. It was all right; maybe cops needed to do that. Play it down. Though he might have asked them about scaring guys to keep them alive, what they thought of it. In his mind, not paying attention, he slipped getting out of the shower, caught himself but banged his hip against the tile wall, hard. God damn it hurt. He had to sit on the bed to pull his pants on: khakis fresh from the laundry. With a blue shirt, he decided, dark blue tie and the linen sportcoat that cost ninety bucks on Ashford Avenue and almost matched the khakis but was lighter: his suit, his best outfit. Dressing up to go see Mr. Donovan.

He looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. Moved closer, picked up the scissors and snipped at his beard, attempting to weed the thin streaks of gray, aware of himself in the silence, look, getting older. He would have to shave off the beard to get rid of the gray. But he liked the beard, so keeping it was a compromise. Living here would be the same thing, if he decided to stay. He didn’t know what he wanted. If he quit the police and stayed would it be because the guy shot him or because he shot the guy? Was he going to see Donovan because he was concerned about Iris? Or to get back into it, to be doing something, practice his trade? Analyze that.

His hip still hurt as he hobbled out on his cane through the courtyard of the Carmen Apartments that was like a small parking lot for the liquor store. People parked on the sidewalk in San Juan; they parked everywhere. He tested himself moving through the cars: walk all the way over to Fernandez Juncos, in some pain, to hop a T-1 bus, or get a cab at the Hilton for the ride to Isla Verde? This was no way to live-without the city providing a car. Even a gray Plymouth Reliant with nothing on it.

The guy in the straw hat and sunglasses was studying a map spread open on the roof of his car. The guy looked up and said, “Excuse me?” As though he weren’t sure if he should be excused or not.

Vincent recognized him from the beach: the tourist who came in the black Chevy cab and took pictures.

“I think I’m lost.”

Vincent thought of saying to him, No, you’re not. His cop mind telling him the tourist had been waiting for him. Which could mean the tourist had followed him or knew beforehand where he lived. The tourist didn’t act lost. He didn’t have the proper lost expression, helpless or annoyed. The tourist was grinning, the grin saying, Look what a nice guy I am. And Vincent thought, bullshit; the guy was trying too hard. Guys like that made him nervous.

“I came over from Condado Beach,” the tourist said, “the traffic across the bridge was going both ways. Now it’s one way and I can’t figure out how to get back.”

The guy had come up with a good one. Maybe he was all right. Vincent said he’d show him and got in the car. Then was sorry. The guy was a terrible driver. Vincent would feel the guy looking at him, see the rear ends of cars lighting up in the traffic and have to brace against the dash as the guy hit the brakes.

The tourist said, “The PRs sure play their radios loud. You notice?” He said, “They can’t drive for shit.” He said, “I think I’ve seen you someplace. I know I saw you on the beach, I mean before that.”

Vincent waited.

“Was it in Miami?”

Vincent said, “I don’t know. It might’ve been.”

“That’s where you’re from, ‘ey?”

“Miami Beach.”

The tourist took his time. “You’re a cop. Huh?”

Vincent glanced at him to make sure he had the guy in his mind, then looked back at the traffic. “If we’ve met before, tell me about it.”

“I understand you got shot.”

Vincent didn’t like this guy at all, the feeling he was getting. He said nothing and listened to the guy’s voice, his unhurried delivery, the words rehearsed.

“I bet it hurts to get shot, ‘ey?” The tourist wearing sunglasses and a straw hat, props, with the sun gone for the day, off behind them somewhere. The tourist said, “You don’t have no idea who I am, do you?”

Vincent would be willing to make a guess now, in a general area, and bet money on it. But he said, “I’m afraid not. Help me out.”

“It was seven and a half years ago.”

“What was?”

“When we met.”

“Take a left at the next light. It goes straight through to Ashford, if you want the beach.”

“We first met I didn’t get a good look at you,” the tourist said. “But after that I had time.” He paused, making the turn, before he said, “Four days in a row.”

“Dade County Court,” Vincent said.

“That your guess?”

Vincent said, “You can let me off at the corner there’ll be fine. I appreciate the ride.”

The tourist kept going. He said, “Do I make you nervous?”

Vincent said, “Your driving does. Jesus.”

The light at Ashford was red and the tourist stopped on the left side of the one-way street, so Vincent would have to get out in the traffic. The tourist said, “I’m gonna let you think about it, Vince. Till we see each other again.” He took off his straw hat and sunglasses, giving Vincent one more chance to make him.

Vincent got his left leg out of the car before pushing himself up to stand in the street. The light changed. Horns went off close behind him. He hunched over in the doorway, his back to the noise. “You know why I don’t recognize you?”

“Why?” the tourist said.

“Because all of you shifty ex-con assholes look alike,” Vincent said. He slammed the door, limped around behind the car and into Walgreen’s drugstore.

Vincent reversed the charges on his call to Buck Torres, Miami Beach Police. Torres came on with, “What’s the matter? Is anything wrong?” Vincent asked him how it was going and Torres said, same old thing, trying to stay ahead of the assholes. They talked for a minute, Vincent watching the traffic, the young Puerto Rican guys in their cars, turning onto Ashford to make a slow loop through the Candado tourist section, playing their radios. Vincent said:

“What I need, check with Hertz for me. Find out who’s driving a white Datsun, PR license number Twenty Baker Two-Eighty and where he told them he’s staying. Okay? Now close your eyes and look at a male Caucasian, mid-thirties, five-nine, a hundred and forty, dishwater straight hair, long thin nose, mole under his right cheekbone. Creepy guy, we sent him up about seven and a half years ago.”

Torres said, “I don’t see anybody.”

“Get the name from Hertz and run it. Okay? I think he was released in the past couple of weeks, he looks like shit.”

“He just got out,” Torres said, “how’d he get a credit card?”

“I don’t know,” Vincent said, “but he’s driving a rental. If he stole the I.D. all the better. Comes to Puerto Rico and does five to ten. But I’d have to canvas all the hotels to find him, wouldn’t I? And my leg hurts.”

“You saw him and you think you know him, or what?”

“He knows me,” Vincent said. “He knows where I live, he knows I was shot… I think I’m the reason he’s here. Because I fucked up his life.”

“Sure, it’s your fault, Vincent.”

“Can you do it now, call me right back?”

“Everybody’s on the street but me. Why don’t I call you later, at your place?”

“Where do you think I’m staying? I don’t have a phone.” He watched polished Japanese cars turning onto Ashford. The bus stop was three blocks away. The ride out to Isla Verde could take a half hour. He said, “Wait, I got a number you can use,” and took a slip of notepaper out of his coat pocket. “But you have to call within the next hour. Okay?”

Torres said, “You miss work, Vincent-is that it?”