“Yeah, the man’s name is Frank DiCilia,” Andre’s wife said.

“That’s it.” Maguire nodded. Right, Frank DiCilia. He knew it was something like Cecilia or Cadelia. Years ago the name had been in the papers a lot.

“And how about where he lives? Or where I get in touch with him?”

“His home’s in Florida-”

“Is that right?” Maguire perking up. “That’s where I’m going, Florida.” Maybe it was a sign, things beginning to come together without a lot of sweat and strain. “Where, Miami Beach?”

“Fort something. Fort Laura-”

“Fort Lauderdale.”

“Yeah, Fort Lauradale.”

Jesus, it was a sign. That’s where he was going for the job. The man was right there. No special trip required. It would give him time to think about it, how to approach a man like Frank DiCilia. Show him the clipping from the paper, TRIO ROBS COUNTRY CLUB, identify himself as one of the defendants-

“But ain’t no way you gonna see him,” Andre’s wife said.

“What do you mean? Why not?”

“The man died about a week ago,” Andre’s wife said. “Andre say he heard about it. You didn’t?”

SOME OF Roland Crowe’s buddies were still sloshing around back there in the swamp, driving air boats, guiding hunting and fishing parties, poaching alligators, making shine; some others were doing time at Raford and Lake Butler. Bunch of dinks.

Roland had been that entire route and had poured cement for five years before going broke and learning the simple secret of success in business. Deal only in personal services. Not things. No lifting, no heavy work, no overhead, no machinery to speak of. Look good, listen carefully, take a minimum of shit, live close to the Beach and always make yourself available to people who called and said, Roland, there’s this man owes us money. Or, Roland, we believe this man is going independent on us. Or, we believe he’s telling us a story…