Jerry was tense, frowning. He said, "George, do we have a guest name of Prado staying with us?" He had a stack of reservation cards in his hand. "I don't recall that name. Less they checked in on my day off."

"Let me see," Moran said, coming around the counter now, playing the game with Jerry for whatever reason he was doing it, but knowing one thing for sure, before they said a word: They weren't police. Jerry and the police were buddies. Moran took the guest cards and started going through them. They were old ones, from last season.

The Latino younger guy was staring at Moran, weighing him and apparently not impressed. He said, "Come on, what is this?"

Moran said, "What was the name, Bravo?"

"Prado." The younger one reached across the counter, held his arm extended and snapped his fingers. The younger one reached across the counter, held his arm extended and snapped his fingers.

"Give me those. Come on, let see what you got."

Jerry said, "I told him, George, they're private property. I'm not supposed to show 'em."

The heavyset Irish-looking guy put his hand on the younger one's outstretched arm. The arm went down to the counter and the heavyset one pushed up his gla.s.ses again. He said, "George, we're not getting anywhere fast here, are we? Looking through cards-what've you got, maybe two units rented, three? You got five cars outside counting mine." He turned to the windows that looked out on the courtyard and the illuminated pool. "You got lights on in one unit I can see. Maybe they're in there watching the ball game, which I wish I was home watching right now myself. But I know this fella we're looking for doesn't care too much about the NFLor who goes to the Super Bowl next January, so he's probably doing something else in there.

We can go down and knock on the door. We can knock on every door you got here, but I don't want to disturb any your guests might be sleeping. Cause a commotion, give the place a bad name. That's where I stand. What I want to know, George, is where you stand, why you're being uncooperative."

Moran didn't say anything. He was trying to think of the phone number of the Pompano Beach Police.

"He owe you rent money?"

Moran still didn't say anything.

"That's a pretty easy question, George. You don't have to scratch your head on that one, do you?"

The Latino one said, "Come on, George, cut the s.h.i.t. What room is he in?"

The heavyset one turned to look at the Latino. He said, "Corky, go on outside, okay? Go on, I'll take care of it."

The Latino took his time, reluctant, but went outside toward the pool.

The door closed and the heavyset Irish-looking guy said, "f.u.c.king spic. Somebody told 'em they have hot blood, they have to live up to it. Don't worry about Corky, I'll put him on a leash I have to."

"Or I can call the cops," Moran said.

The heavyset man sighed. He dug into his rumpled size-44 jacket, brought out a business card and laid it on the counter. "Jiggs Scully. I used to be a cop myself. City of New York, borough of Manhattan, George. I bet I can talk to 'em better'n you can."

Moran picked up the card. "Business Consultant..."

"That's correct," Scully said, "I'm a consultant. See the address? New World Tower, Biscayne Boulevard. I advise people on business matters, act as a go-between, bring people together that want to make deals . . . things like that. You want to know any more, come by my office we'll have a coffee sometime. Okay? Right now I'm going down to see Mr. Prado. Where you come in-I'm gonna knock on his door, he don't open it then I might have to kick it in. I mean the business I got with him is that pressing. So you can give me a key and maybe save yourself a door. What do you think?"

Moran said, "You can knock on the door. But if he doesn't open it you don't go in. You can talk to the cops and we'll see how good you are."

"Oh, man," Jiggs Scully said, sounding tired, leaning on the counter again. "I notice that thing on your arm. Once a Marine, always a Marine, uh? Gonna stand your ground. Okay, pal, he don't open the door I'll go home, watch Monday Night Football. How's that sound to you?"

Jerry stayed inside by the window, within reach of the phone. Moran would give him the high sign if he had to use it. Right now it was quiet out there. The two men had gone down to oceanfront Number One, knocked, waited, knocked again and the door opened. Now they were inside. Jerry looked at the clock. Twenty past ten. Now they'd been in there only a couple of minutes. Jerry opened the office door now. He called out in a low voice, "George?"

The figure near the shallow end of the pool didn't move; he was watching the end apartment. Beyond it was darkness and the ocean. Jerry stepped outside. He closed the door behind him quietly and crept up to Moran.

"You able to hear what they said?"

Moran shook his head.

"That wind out there, you can't hear yourself think," Jerry said. "The piano player opened the door, then seemed to step back, didn't he? Like he was inviting them in?"

Moran didn't say anything. He wished Jerry would go back inside.

"Maybe they're from the finance company, gonna repossess his car. I didn't like 'em at all. That type," Jerry said, "they come in a place, you know they're gonna take whatever they want. First I thought it was a stickup."

"You better stay by the phone," Moran said. "You look up the number?"

"Seven eight five . . . seven eight five two nine...Or is it nine two one one?"

"I don't know what it is," Moran said, "but you better be sure." He saw the door open. "Jerry, they're coming out."

Jerry hurried off.

Moran watched the younger guy, the Latino named Corky, appear, then the piano player and the woman. The Irish-looking guy, Jiggs Scully, closed the door and turned the k.n.o.b to make sure it was locked. They came in single file now along the front of the apartment wing, heading for the alcove next to the office where the c.o.ke machine and ice maker were located. They could go through the alcove to the street. They were about twenty feet away, pa.s.sing him now.

Moran said, "Mrs. . . ." He didn't know what to call her. He said, "Is everything all right?"

Jiggs Scully, a barrel shuffling along, bringing up the rear, looked over. "Everything's lovely, George. Go on back the ball game."

Moran said, "Mr. Prado?"

The Latino guy, Corky, said something in Spanish and laughed. Jiggs Scully said, "George, you're paid up, you got nothing to worry about there. We're gonna go out have a few pops. We'll see you later. Have a nice evening."

Moran followed them as far as the alcove. He watched them walk past the line of angle-parked cars, past the woman's gray Mercedes, Nolen's rusting-out blue Porsche. He didn't see the piano player's car. All four of them got into a two-tone red and white Cadillac and drove away.

Moran had to go to the office to get the key to Number Five. Jerry said, "Nolen's in there. He's been in there all evening."

"I guess he's asleep," Moran said.

"But why would he know anything about them?" Jerry said.

Moran didn't answer, already going out the door. He stepped over to Number Five, listened-there were faint sounds coming from inside. He knocked hard, three times. When nothing happened he used the key to open the door. The place smelled like a bar.

The TV was tuned to the football game. Nolen sat in the room's one comfortable chair facing the set, eyes closed, head lying on his shoulder, snoring a little. Moran shook him, taking the empty gla.s.s he held in his lap.

"Hey, Nolen?"

He woke up right away. "What's the matter?" He rubbed his hand over his face and saw Moran placing the gla.s.s on the table, by the scotch and the box of crackers. Moran came back to the chair.

"Two guys came in. Looking for the piano player."

Nolen didn't say anything.

"You hear what I said?"

"What time is it?"

"About ten-thirty. They came out with Prado and Anita, said they're going to have a drink, but I don't think so. They put 'em in a car and drove off. A red and white Cadillac."

"There you are," Nolen said.

"What do you mean, there you are? They took 'em somewhere."

"Forget about it," Nolen said. He still hadn't moved, sitting low in the chair.

"One of them, his name's Jiggs Scully. The other guy was Cuban-I don't know, Latin."

"The guy told you his name?"

"He gave me his card. Jiggs Scully."

"You believe him?"

"He gave me his card. card."

"You're paid up," Nolen said. "Forget about it."

"You sound like the guy Jiggs," Moran said. He turned around and walked out.

When he got the key to Number One Jerry wanted to go with him, but Moran told him he'd better stay in the office in case there was a call. He didn't want Jerry along. He was afraid he'd see something in the apartment and Jerry would ask questions and he'd end up telling Jerry the woman was Andres de Boya's sister and then Jerry would ask more questions and Moran would have to stand there saying, "I don't know," over and over, Jerry driving him nuts. It was true, he didn't know what was going on. They could be good friends and the guy was kidding about kicking the door in. The woman hadn't yelled. She could have run or at least yelled out when she saw him standing by the swimming pool.

He had a funny feeling going in the apartment, the wind blowing, then quiet as he closed the door-the place empty but all the lights on, every one of them.

It still surprised him the woman hadn't yelled something. A woman like that, she would have demanded help if she needed it, then complained if he didn't jump right away.

The apartment seemed in order, music playing softly on the radio. If they didn't turn the radio or the lights off, that could mean something. Forced to leave without any fooling around. Or it could mean they didn't worry too much about bills from Florida Power. People who owned places along the beach were always comparing their electric bills. An ashtray was full of long cigarette b.u.t.ts. A few Coconut Palms ill.u.s.trated postcards lay on the desk. There was an empty champagne bottle in the trash can. He didn't see the brandy bottle, the one Lula said was down a couple inches every morning when she cleaned. Lula said they tore the bed up; but both double beds were still made. A pink negligee hung in the bedroom closet. Moran wondered if he should take it; he was pretty sure he would never see them again. There didn't seem to be anything that belonged to the piano player. Moran turned off the radio and the lights before he left.

They didn't come back during the night. When Moran walked out to the street, early, before seven, he saw the woman's gray Mercedes was gone. He thought, Well, that doesn't mean anything. All of them still could be friends. They got back late and the woman decided to go home; the lovers never spent the night anyway. Maybe they'd be back at it this afternoon . . . Just about the time Moran would be at Miami International boarding the Eastern flight to Santo Domingo.

He waited until after nine before calling the number on the business card that bore the name Jiggs Scully Jiggs Scully and and Consultant Consultant beneath it. beneath it.

A woman's voice said, "Good morning, Dorado Management."

Moran said, "Mr. Scully, please."

The woman's voice said, "Mr. Scully?" As though she didn't recognize the name. "Just a minute." There was a silence on the line for about ten seconds. The woman's voice came back on and said, "I'm sorry, sir, there's no Mr. Scully with the company."

Moran said, "I've got his card. Your phone number's on it."

The woman's voice said, "I'm sorry, sir, there's no one here by that name," and hung up.

Moran didn't see Nolen until ten-thirty. He came out to the cement wall with a beer in his hand, stringy hair blowing in the wind, and raised his face, eyes closed, to the overcast sky.

"Beautiful morning."

Moran said, "They didn't come back last night."

"They never do."

"I called the guy's number. Scully? There's no one there by that name."

"He lied to you," Nolen said, "didn't he? But, in any event, the lovers will come back sometime or they won't. What else can I tell you, buddy?"

Moran was ready to jump on him. "You can cut the buddy s.h.i.t and tell me what's going on. Why'd Anita and the piano player pick this place? There a thousand motels they could've gone to, they pick this one. Why?"

Nolen took a drink of beer without opening his eyes. "It's halfway between them-I don't know."

"But you were told to come here, weren't you? You didn't follow them here."

"Marshall gave me a postcard picture of the place, when it had palm trees."

"De Boya gave it to him?"

"I guess so."

"He tell his sister to come here? Good place to shack up? Come on..."

"Maybe she saw the postcard at her brother's house," Nolen said, in pain, persecuted. "She tells the piano player to meet her here 'cause it's the only place she can think of. How's that?"

"Something's going on," Moran said, "and I'm standing in the middle. Does de Boya think I know his sister? I invited 'em here?"

"I don't know," Nolen said, "I really don't. I was hired to watch Anita." He sucked in fresh ocean air, still not looking at Moran. "And sort of keep my eyes open."

"For what?"

"See who comes to visit you." Nolen glanced at Moran and could not have liked the way Moran was staring at him. "Marshall said-you want his exact words?-he said keep your eyes open for a broad."

"Go on."

"With sort of blond streaked hair, good-looking."

"About thirty-two?"

"Yeah, he said around thirty."

Moran kept staring at him. "What else do you do for money? Anything you're told, huh?" He walked off toward his bungalow.

Nolen said, "George?" and waited for him to look around. Nolen raised his beer can. "You got any cold ones?"

Moran looked tired. He said, "Come on," with a halfhearted wave of his hand.

Nolen followed him inside.