One thing was certain. Chris had seen better days. His skin was patchy and wan and his forehead was a pebble garden of pimples. He’d grown out his hair from the crew cut he had sported a half-dozen years ago; the last time Decker had seen him in the flesh. It was brushed straight back, Count Dracula style, and trimmed to the bottom of his ears. He was still built lanky but with bigger arms than Decker had remembered. He had dressed up for the reunion, wearing a blue polo shirt, charcoal gabardine pants, and Croc boots.

“I’m starting to get a little pain in my arms.”

“Lower them slowly.”

He did. “Now what?”

“Take a seat. Move slowly. When you move slowly, I move slowly. If you rush me, I shoot first and ask questions later.” When Donatti started to sit on the chair, Decker stopped him. “On the sofa, please.”

Donatti cooperated and plopped down on the cushions. Decker tossed him his watch. He caught it one-handed and placed it back on his wrist. “Is she even here?”

“She’s in the bedroom.”

“That’s a start. Is she coming out?”

“When I give her the okay, she’ll come out.”

“Where’s Gabe?”

“He’s not here,” Decker said.

“That’s probably better.” Donatti dropped his head in his hands. He resurfaced a moment later. “I suppose your being here makes sense.”

“Thanks for your approval.”

“Look. I’m not going to do anything.”

“Why the armory, then?”

“I always pack. Can I talk to my wife now?”

Decker stood at the marble countertop of the hotel bar, the Beretta still in his hands. “A couple of ground rules. Number one: you stay seated the entire time. Don’t approach her in any way, shape, or form. And no sudden movements. It makes me jumpy.”

“Agreed.”

“Mind your mouth and your manners and I’m sure everything will go swimmingly.”

“Yeah…sure.” His voice was a whisper.

“You look a little pale. You want some water?” He opened the bar. “Something stronger?”

“Whatever.”

“Macallan, Chivas, Glenfiddich—”

“Glenfiddich neat.” A moment later, Decker handed him a crystal cut glass with a healthy dose of Scotch. Donatti took a delicate sip and then drank a finger’s worth. “Thanks. This helps.”

“You’re welcome.” Decker regarded the man. “Your color’s coming back.”

“I haven’t had a drink all day.”

“It’s only twelve in the afternoon.”

“It’s almost happy hour New York time. I didn’t want her to think I’m weak. But I am.” Another sip. “She knows I’m weak. What the fuck!”

“Watch your mouth.”

“If my mouth was my only problem, I’d be in good shape.” He handed Decker his empty glass.

“Another?” When Donatti shook his head, Decker closed the cabinet. “What happened?”

“What happened is I’m an idiot.”

“That’s putting it mildly.”

“I’ve always had reading comprehension problems.”