Later that evening, rather deep in his cups, he got a call from the desk. Fumbling the receiver, he finally put it against his cheek and said, “Yes?”

“Sir, there’s a woman here to see you. Jamila Osogurundi. Should I send her up or would you prefer to come down?”

Aristide looked around the parlor: a room service tray, listlessly picked through. Dirty glasses. Him in a dressing gown open over rumpled, sweaty clothing.

“I’ll come down,” he said. “Thank you.”

When he picked his way to the bottom of the grand Y-staircase, freshly if somewhat sloppily dressed, Jamila was waiting in the lobby flipping through a magazine he couldn’t imagine she was interested in.

“Ms. Osogurundi,” he said. “Will you join me in the bar?”

She cased him over the magazine, one eyebrow raised. “You sure you need it?”

He refused to look down at himself, but did wonder if he’d got his buttons off by one, or left his fly open.

“I will order a coffee,” he said, enunciating carefully.

Once they were settled in a booth, far at the back, she said, “I had that call with Cross.”

Aristide reached for his watch, found he had left it upstairs, and said, “It was late in Rarom when we came to you.”

“I woke her up.”

Ah. This was not going to go well for him.

“I ain’t even gonna roll this in sugar for you,” she said. “You’re out. With a boot print on your rear. You sold your shares, so Cross has the say-so, and she says so. I bet they picked her up on every receiver between here and Rarom. You’re lucky our insurance paid out, or she might be on her way across the ocean with a dull knife and some pliers.”

Aristide sipped his coffee. Still too hot.

“I don’t think she’d mind if you left town.” Jamila went on. “Maybe Gedda. Go somewhere slow and sit there quiet for a while, out of mind. She says, it’s about time you retired from the life.”

“Does she really?”

Jamila had never struck him as a squirmer, but she came close. “Qassan’s got an open invitation to stay on,” she said. “He’s a good worker. But if you want to take him with you…”

His cup snapped back into the saucer with too much force. “I think we both know the answer to that question.”

“Right.” Jamila wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“If that’s all—” he began, rising from his seat.

But she shook her head. “Hang on, hang on. Listen.”

“If it’s about Daoud, I’d rather put a hatpin through my ear.”

He saw her press down annoyance and gather herself overtop of it. “No,” she said. “Sit back down.”

“Please?”

“Damnation, Makricosta, I’m trying to do you a good one and you’re making me regret it.”