“A week is a year in this place. Listen, be a pal. Get me the fuck outta here now.”

“I wish I could, Flix, emmis. But I’m gonna do the next best thing. I’m gonna find us a new armorer.”

“Good luck with that,” Orteño said morosely. “Sandy was the best I’ve ever seen.”

“Maybe,” Whitman replied, “but I think I’ve got a line on someone even better.”

Orteño stared at him. “You’re freakin’ kidding me.” He shook his head. “I tell you, don’t screw with a Latino in pain.”

“Hand to God.”

“There is no God.”

“And this coming from a Catholic.”

“Lapsed, baby, lapsed.” Orteño made a face. “If God had witnessed what we’ve seen on the field of battle and done nothing, he’d be one sonuvabitch.”

“Sixteen angels just lost their wings.”

Orteño guffawed. “Like I care,” he said. “So who’s the candidate?”

“Party by the name of Charlie Daou.”

“Never heard of him. He ex-military?”

“Not a bit of it,” Whitman said. “Charlie wouldn’t be caught dead in the military.”

Orteño’s expression darkened. “What? He’s not patriotic?”

“Not enough money in it.”

“So that’s why you think he’ll come and work for us.”

Universal Securities Associates paid very well, indeed, even for a field consultant, as they were euphemistically known, and especially for the Red Rover team.

“That and other reasons,” Whitman said vaguely.

Orteño wriggled himself into a more upright position. “Care to share?”

“Charlie and I go way back. I can be pretty persuasive when I want to be. I think it’ll work out.”

Orteño nodded. “Have at it then, my man. Make us whole again. The best medicine for both of us is to get back to work.”

Whitman rose, bent over the bed, until his forehead touched Flix’s.

“True dat.”

* * *

The night was clear and almost balmy. Whitman ate at his favorite Thai joint, where they knew to serve him food they themselves ate, one dish more incendiary than the next. Afterward, he repaired to The Doll House, where, amid wretched shadows, he watched Sydny pole dance while she fucked him with her doe eyes. He paid more for aged, sipping tequila and still more for double-shots that weren’t watered down. When Sydny’s routine ended, she took him for a private lap dance that unaccountably did nothing for him.

“What’s the matter, honey?” she said in her husky, honey-drip voice. “Bad day at the office?” He had told her he was a skip tracer because with his physique accountant just wouldn’t cut it.

He lifted her bodily off him, handed her a wad of bills, and set her aside. Outside the club he took a deep gulp of air, wondered what the hell he was doing. By that time, it was hard on midnight. Time to take the bull by its very dangerous horns.

The last time Whitman had seen Charlie Daou was three years ago, and it wasn’t an evening he often cared to remember. Every once in a while, his third right rib still pained him; Charlie was left-handed.