I drive to the end of the block and stop at the light and wait for a green arrow that will let me turn left. Branko wants me to remember. He sings.

– Listen to the Sunday Classics. Doubleyou bee ell esss. Hal Jackson. He’s got a lot of soul.

I get my arrow and turn.

– Yeah. OK. I remember.

He nods.

– Yes. Everybody knows Hal Jackson.

I have to wait again to make the left into the Mandalay’s drive. A siren sounds from somewhere up The Strip. I glance into the mirror and see an ambulance pulling into the Happi Inn Motel lot. I look at Branko. He shrugs.

– I call the 911.

He holds up his hands.

– He would have to dial with his nose.

He taps the tip of his own nose.

I turn into the drive and join the long line of cars and cabs waiting to pull up to the entrance of the hotel. I glance once more back at the Happi.

– Guy was a cop.

Branko nods. I rub my right eyebrow, grinding away the last of the singed hairs.

– No one told me he was a cop.

Branko shrugs.

I watch the taillights of the car in front of us, flashing pale in the shaded drive.

– I’d like to’ve known he was a cop.

Branko nods.

– Next time.

Next time. Next time I’m supposed to bait a guy into a motel room with coke, they’ll let me know if the guy’s a cop. Color me reassured. We pull up to the valet stand and climb out. I take the ticket from the valet and follow Branko into the lobby where we get slammed by a wall of cocoa butter-scented freezing air and the screams of caged parrots and macaws. Branko points toward the elevator banks.

– Twenty-seven-twenty.

– You coming up?

– No.

– Where should I meet you?

– Nowhere. I will stay here.

– OK.

He sticks out his hand and I take it.