It was a show-off thing to do you could only do in front of people who were asleep.

He opened the colonel’s shirt drawer, slipped his hand beneath folds of soft silk, and felt the pistol and two extra magazines. He brought them out, closed his hand around the grip of the Beretta, feeling the solid heft of it as he walked over to the desk. The pink copy of a car dealer bill of sale lay next to the bank deposit and withdrawal receipts.

Helene had to pick up her scotch and water with her left hand. The colonel, hunched over the table in his black silk jacket, wouldn’t let go of her right hand. He held it in both of his, the one with the diamond on top. He looked like a gangster in the movies. Or a record promoter, hard rock. Except when he spoke.

“I’ll tell you something from long experience. I have never seen a woman so attractive as you in my life.”

“Oh, I don’t believe that,” Helene said. “You’re exaggerating. Aren’t you?”

“I have had associations with very beautiful women. One of them was going to be in the Senorita Universo. You know of that? To choose the most beautiful woman in the world. But she got sick.”

“I was homecoming queen at Fortier,” Helene said, “my senior year. I probably could’ve been Sugar Bowl Queen one time, but I didn’t try very hard. You know, why bother? You get in those big pageants I hear it’s just politics. You know, who you go to bed with, and I’m not that kind. I have too much self-respect.”

“Politics, yes, of course. My whole life I devote to the government of my country. Yes, I was in Washington, I know your president very well. He wrote a letter to me I like to show you. He sign it Ronald Reagan, the president. Listen, I’ll get it to show you.”

“No, that’s okay, Dagoberda. What do you like to be called, Dago?”

“No, I prefer with my friends, Bertie.”

“That’s cute. I like that, Birdy.”

“No, not Birdy, like a bird. Bertie. Ber-tie.”

“That’s cute, too.”

“I think you the cute one. Listen, you visiting, uh? From where?”

“Miami.”

“No. Is that true? You from Miami?”

“Have you ever been there?”

“Sure, I been there. I’m going back there, too, pretty soon.”

“Are you? When?”

“You from Miami. You know what this is, how you come to my room and we meet? Is destiny. It was going to happen and we don’t know it. See, and there is nothing we can do to stop it.”

“It’s weird,” Helene said. “When’re you going?”

“You have to give me your phone number and your address, for when I go there.”

“Why don’t you give me your number instead?”

“I don’t know it yet.” He looked up, straightened, letting go of her hand. “Ah, but now I can get it for you, good.” And called out, “Crispin!”

Helene turned enough to see two men coming over from the lobby, both Latins in mod-cut suits with pointy shoulders. The one coming ahead of the other, hands in his pockets, had on sunglasses. Now the colonel was saying, “Crispin, this beautiful lady is from Miami. Elene, Crispin, my associate, is also from there. Crispin, sit with us, have a drink.”

Helene said, “Listen, you guys, I’m gonna have to run in about two minutes.”

Now the colonel was shaking his head, telling her he wouldn’t hear of it. She watched him snap his fingers, once, at the other Latin guy, who’d hung back holding his hands in front of him, but came toward them now as the colonel told him something in Spanish that sounded like an order and tossed his room key in the air for the guy to catch. There, do it. Then turned back to her smiling, Bertie again.

“He’s going to get the letter from President Reagan so I can show you.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Helene said. “I really wish you wouldn’t.”

But the colonel was snapping his fingers now at the giant black waiter and the one named Crispin turned his sunglasses on her to ask, “Where you live in Miami?”

Jack went through the deposit and withdrawal receipts, saw nothing that looked like a transfer to a Miami bank, saw one new account that had been opened and copied all the figures down again, just to be sure. Several more names had been checked on the colonel’s prospect list, others crossed out. He came to the letter on White House stationery and began reading it again, wanting to memorize his favorite parts: the one where our president tells the colonel to “win a big one for democracy,” and the one where he mentions “my friends in the Pelican State.” Jesus Christ, the Pelican State. That closing, in Spanish, Jack had figured out to mean “he isn’t heavy, he’s…”

In the silence, concentrating, he heard the sounds coming from the other room. The key in the lock. Someone coming in, trying to, pushing on the door but having trouble with it. Trying again now. Jack picked up the Beretta from the desk. He moved around to the other side of the bed, by the window, eased down against the wall behind the headboard and hump of pillows and didn’t like it, the feeling of being cornered here. He’d rather be standing and thought of the closet with its sliding doors, closed now. They made a noise when you pushed them open. He’d have to move past the bedroom door to get to the closet. He’d have to hurry. Now he didn’t want to move.

Then did it all at once. Got up as he began to crawl, crossed toward the closet, looking into the sitting room and saw the door knob jiggle, saw it turn. He kept going, past the closet into the bathroom, turned off the light, eased the door half closed, and stepped behind it, against the tiled wall. He held the Beretta upright, almost touching the side of his face, listening.

It was quiet now.

It was dark in front of him, a crack of light along the inside edge of the door, next to him. He waited. He heard nothing until the door moved.

The door moved toward him. The bathroom light came on. The door moved away from him, closed, and he was looking at a head of dark hair, nappy, thick, above the sharp angles of the man’s suit coat, the shoulders hunching over the washbasin. Above the man’s head was his own reflection in the mirror. He watched himself bring the Beretta down from his face to extend it, almost touching the man splashing cologne into his hand. The Nicaraguan Indian with the weird name, rubbing his hands together, raising them to his face as his head came up. Now Franklin de Dios was in the mirror with Jack, the Indian who looked like a Creole. He stared, his fingers pressed to his pointy cheekbones, at the half face above his own. He brought his hands down, starting to turn.

Jack put the Beretta into the groove at the base of the Indian’s skull, into his hair, and that kept him looking straight ahead.

At first Jack bent his knees a little, trying to stay directly behind the Indian, trying to hide. But, shit, he had seen the Indian’s eyes. The Indian knew who he was. So he stood straight to play it straight, not having any idea what he was going to do other than try to fake it somehow, try to get this guy who’d killed Boylan more scared than he was. Shit. But even holding the gun against the guy’s head he didn’t feel in control. He wasn’t sure if the guy would do what he told him.

“Put your hands on the mirror.”

The Indian obeyed, leaned over the sink and placed his palms flat. He looked into the mirror again, past his own reflection, and seemed resigned. Jack reached around in front of him, ran his hand along the Indian’s belt and then up under his arms and felt perspiration but no gun. He felt his coat pockets. He stooped and ran his hand down one leg and started down the other when the Indian moved, tried to turn. Jack jammed the Beretta into the crack of the guy’s ass and heard a grunt as the guy’s hips jerked against the sink and he went up on his toes. Taking control was not as hard as it looked.

There was an ankle holster on the Indian’s right leg holding a two-inch .38 revolver. Jack slipped it into his coat pocket as he came up. Now they were looking at each other again in the mirror. Staring at each other: the Indian’s expression, Jack’s too, mildly curious, nothing more. Nothing to show Jack wondering what he was going to do with the guy so he could get out of here. It would be easier to shoot him than hit him over the head with two pounds of metal. How hard would he have to hit him? Shit, it could kill him, the Indian with the weird name, fracture his skull. Jack had hit guys before they hit him; it was the way to do it if it was going to happen. He could get mad, charge himself up in two seconds, all of a sudden have the desire, that aggressive urge to hit, and would hear himself letting go as he went in and hit, a sound that packed energy and was more than a grunt. He could turn the guy around and belt him and he could break his fucking hand, too. He hadn’t hit anybody in five years, at least.