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 shit 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?”