"Shall we?" she said.

Jesse drained the rest of his drink and put his glass on the bar beside hers.

"You bet," Jesse said.

SEVENTEEN.

"See the guy over there talking to Marcy?"

Macklin said.

"Cute," Faye said.

"What's so cute?" Macklin said.

"Well he's slim, but he looks strong.

He's got a nice face. Good hair. Looks sort of, I don't know, graceful. He's cute."

"Whaddya think he does for a living?"

Macklin said.

"He's some kind of professional athlete."

"He's the chief of police," Macklin said.

"He's young," she said.

"How do you know he's the police chief?"

"I scoped out the police station, so's I can recognize the cops, and I see him come and go. Plain clothes, unmarked car, and he walks like, you know, "This is mine." So I go over the library and get a town report and look up the police department and there he is, Jesse Stone, chief of police."

"You don't miss much do you, Jimmy?" Faye's voice was admiring.

"No more than I have to."

He liked to think that of himself, Faye knew. He liked to think that he was prepared for everything. The truth was Faye knew that he simply enjoyed the foreplay. She had never said, If you're so goddamned good why have you spent half your life in jail? It would break his heart if he knew she thought less of him than he thought of himself. At least he was still alive. At least she still had him.

"How's he look to you aside from cute?" Macklin said.

"He looks like he might know what he's doing," Faye said.

"Why do you say that?"

"He looks different from all the other men here," Faye said.

"And they clearly don't have any idea what they're doing."

Macklin laughed and put his arm around her shoulder. He turned her toward him, and they began to dance to "The Tennessee Waltz."

"Well, we're just going to fucking find that out, aren't we, my little chickadee?"

"Don't turn this into a game, Jimmy."

"A game?"

"Don't make this you against the cop to see who's better. Just steal the money and we'll go."

Macklin tightened his arms around her and held her against him. She rubbed her cheek gently against his.

"Not to worry," Macklin said.

"We'll do the big knock over and then we'll go someplace warm and sit beside each other and drink daiquiris in the sun."

"Yes," Faye said softly.

"You and me, babe," Macklin said.

"Yes."

"Always been you and me. Always will be."

Faye didn't say anything.

"Long time together, Faye," Macklin said.

"Just don't turn this into a game of chicken with the cop," Faye said.

"Don't worry," Macklin said.

"I got this thing wired. We're going to do this right."

Faye didn't say anything else, as they moved across the dance floor. She kept her face pressed against his, and she closed her eyes.

EIGHTEEN.

They sat on the open deck of Marcy's small weathered shingle cottage on Strawberry Point in the east end of town, past the narrow harbor mouth, just above the buttress of rust-colored rocks against which the open Atlantic moved without respite. Jesse was drinking beer from the bottle. Marcy had a glass of white wine.

"I thought you drank scotch," Marcy said.

"I do, but beer's nice," Jesse said.

"I thought you drank martinis."

"I do," Marcy said and smiled.

"But wine is nice."

There were no lights on the deck, but there was a small moon and some starlight, and, as their eyes adjusted, they could see each other and the white spray of the breaking swells below them.

"You know why we were drinking differently at the yacht club?"

Marcy said.

"Because we knew we couldn't drink many, so we were trying to get the most bang for the buck."

"I'll be damned," Marcy said.

"You did know."

Jesse smiled.

"I know a lot," he said.

"And so modest," Marcy said.

Jesse had his suit jacket off and it hung from the back of the chair to his left. Marcy could see the butt of his gun showing just in front of his right hip.

"You're carrying a gun," she said.

"I'm a cop."

"Do you always carry one?"

Jesse nodded.

"I'm always a cop," he said.

"What are you now?" she said.

Jesse drank from the bottle.

"Interested," he said.

They both laughed.

"First you," Marcy said.

"Tell me about yourself."

"I was a cop in Los Angeles. I'm thirty-five and divorced."

"I'm older than you," Marcy said.

"Always a cop?"

"No, I was a baseball player, before I got hurt."

"Did you play professionally?"

"Yes."

"Were you any good?"