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 shit. 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, “Fucking 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?”