– Good today. Better.

I look at his hand holding mine.

– Thanks.

He lets go of my hand, slaps my shoulder and walks off toward the sports book. He’ll sit there until David calls for him, watching the ponies and placing the occasional two-dollar bet. He disappears around a bar just off the lobby. Squat, balding and potbellied. He looks like any number of tourists in here. The cheap blue pants, the sneakers, the short-sleeve collared shirt and the Wal-Mart Windbreaker. He could be any Slavic American on vacation.

I step into an elevator and see myself reflected as the shining metal doors close. I don’t look like anybody. I don’t even look like myself.

THE DOORS OPEN on the twenty-seventh floor and I wander until I find the right room. I knock and wait and David opens the door. He smiles.

– Come in, come in.

He looks the same as ever. Buzzed gray hair, trimmed beard, silver-rimmed glasses, the slight belly and the hairy hands. I step past him and he pats my back as I walk ahead of him into the room. The gold tinting on the outside of the windows tinges the air green.

No one else is in the room. This is how I always meet with David, alone, in private. I am his ghost. The weapon no one knows he owns. No one but Branko.

He points at the honor bar.

– Something to drink?

– No, thanks.

– No. Something. You must have something.

He squats down in front of the bar.

– I am having Black Label. I know you will not join me. But a juice? Water?

I shrug.

– You will have juice, then. It is good for your blood sugar. My daughter tells me.

He looks heavenward. The things young people worry about.

He takes a bottle of orange juice from the bar, shakes it and hands it to me.

– A glass?

– No.

He points at a chair and I sit.