“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.

Jerry Shea watched the black Cadillac pull up in front. At first he thought Moran had called for an airport limo. But then realized this car wasn’t any ride to the Miami airport. This was the real thing, a personal limousine with no-glare windows that were almost as black as the car and a driver who wore a buttoned-up dark suit that could pass for a uniform.

Jerry Shea said, “Oh, my God,” out loud.

The driver was the Latino guy who was here last night, the one the other guy had called Corky. Now he was a chauffeur. He stood holding the handle of the rear door, ready to open it.

Now the other one, Jiggs Scully, who had given Moran his card, came out of the passenger side of the front seat. He wore a dark suit and stood pulling up his pants and sticking his shirt in, adjusting himself.

Jerry picked up the phone but didn’t dial.