“They do sell it, you dink,” Roland said. “But they tell Grossi they lost it, and he’s out his dough.”

“They believe they can get away with that?” Jesus Diaz said.

“Jesus,” Roland said, not meaning the little Cuban but the other Jesus. “You should never’ve gone in the ring, you know it? I think you got your brains scrambled.”

Jesus Diaz agreed with that in part. To look like Kid Gavilan and fake a bolo punch wasn’t enough. After thirty-seven professional fights, several times getting the shit beat out of him and almost losing an eye, he could still see clearly and think clearly and knew this man next to him was a prehistoric creature from the swamp-man, from some black lagoon-who wore cowboy hats and chulo suits and squinted at life to see only what he wanted. Maybe he could punch with Roland and hurt him a little, but before it was over Roland would kill him. Roland’s fists were too big and his nose and jaw were up there too far away.

Jesus Diaz, looking up at the green freeway sign as they passed beneath it, almost there now, said, “Hallandale.”

“Yeah?” Roland said. “Hallandale. You can read English, huh?”

What Jesus Diaz would like to do, take the man’s cowboy hat from his head, reach over and grab it and sail it out the window.

This one, they should keep him locked up someplace with his mouth taped.

Then let him out to do the work, yes, because no one walked into a room and faced people the way Roland did.

Into 410 of the Ocean Monarch high-rise condominium on the beach, Jesus Diaz behind him, into the big living room of the apartment with the expensive furniture, where the four young guys were sitting with their beer cans and music and the smell of grass-a heavy smell even with the sliding door open to the balcony.