‘It’s all here, sweetheart. Gonna fire your Irish ass the hell out of here. Gonna be the biggest political cat in the political jungle. You’ll think another thing before you cut off James Bullingsworth. Where’s the door?’

‘You’re leaning on it,’ said the bartender.

‘Right,’ said Bullingsworth and sailed out into the muggy Miami night. The air had a bit of a sobering effect on him and by the time he reached the beach he was only drunk. He kicked the sand and breathed the fresh salt-air. Maybe he had been a bit precipitous? He looked at his watch. He could use another drink. He could really use another drink. Maybe if he went to the president of the bank, explained what he did, maybe everything could be worked out.

He heard the strains of Bette Midler from an open hotel room window. He heard a small power-boat approaching. The beach was supposed to be lit at this hour. All the other sections were indeed well-lighted, but this section was dark. The Atlantic was black out there, with a lone ship blinking like an island afloat.

Then came a whisper.

‘Bullingsworth. Bullingsworth. Is that you?’

'Yeah. Is that you?’ said Bullingsworth.

‘Yes.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Never mind. Did you bring the information?’

‘Yes, I have it.’

‘You tell anyone else?’

Sobering up all too quickly, Bullingsworth thought about an answer. If he told them someone else knew about it, then they might think he was blackmailing them. Then again, that was what he was doing.

‘Look, never mind,’ said Bullingsworth. ‘We’ll talk about this some other day. I’m not going to tell anyone else. Let’s meet tomorrow.’

‘What do you have?’

‘Nothing. I didn’t bring it.’

‘What’s that notebook?’

‘Oh, this. Jeez. Just to take notes. I always carry one.’