“We have friends in common. But don’t you think it’s kind of stupid to be talking on the phone when you’re right there and I’m right here?”

“Wait a second.” The voice was confused, anxious. The connection was broken. Then the music stopped. A minute later the door was opened tentatively, not quite halfway.

“What do you want?” The young man who asked the question was standing partly behind the door, using it as a kind of a shield or, Gurney thought, as a way of concealing whatever he was holding in his left hand. He was about the same height as Gurney, just under six feet. He was slim, with finely cut features, tousled dark hair, and shockingly blue movie-star eyes. Only one thing marred the picture of perfection: a sour look around the mouth, a hint of something nasty, something spiteful.

“Hello, Mr. Montague. My name is Dave Gurney.”

There was an infinitesimal tremor in the young man’s eyelids.

“Is that a familiar name to you?” asked Gurney.

“Should it be?”

“You looked like you recognized it.”

The tremor continued. “What do you want?”

Gurney decided to follow a low-risk strategy, one that he found particularly useful when he was uncertain how much a target subject knew about him. The strategy was to stick to the facts but play with the tone. Manipulate the undercurrents.

“What do I want? Good question, Robert.” He smiled meaninglessly, speaking with the world-weariness of a hit man whose arthritis was acting up. “That depends on what the situation is. To start with, I need some advice. You see, I’m trying to decide whether to accept a job I’ve been offered, and if I do, what the terms ought to be. You familiar with a woman by the name of Connie Clarke?”

“I’m not sure. Why?”

“You’re not sure? You think maybe you know her, but not definitely? I don’t get that.”

“The name is familiar, that’s all.”

“Ah. I see. Anything come to mind when I tell you her daughter’s name is Kim Corazon?”

He blinked rapidly. “Who the hell are you? What’s this about?”

“Can I come in, Mr. Montague? This is pretty personal stuff to be talking about in a doorway.”

“No, you can’t.” He shifted his weight slightly, his left hand still out of view. “Please get to the point.”

Gurney sighed, scratched his shoulder in a vaguely absent way, and fixed a dead stare on Robby Meese. “The thing is, I’ve been asked to provide personal security for Ms. Corazon, and I’m trying to decide how much to charge.”

“Charge? I don’t … I mean … I don’t see … What?”