“Exactly,” announced Simolzak. “Sal is a dangerous person, plus he was very difficult to locate. If Brandon were a normal client this would cost twice as much.” He leaned toward Marino now. “A thousand bucks, and you’ll never have to deal with Condley again. Hell, Sal, it sounds like you just beat everybody at the table.”

“Maybe I did.” Sal Marino rose and actually pulled back Condley’s chair for him. His lined face carried a small, victorious smile, as if he had convinced himself that this was indeed his own idea. “All right, Condley. Let’s go upstairs.”

“Okay, Condley—”

“—You can call me Brandon.”

“Fuck you.” Marino nervously surveyed Condley from across a dining table in a small room usually reserved for private dinners. He had brought a king-size bottle of Singha beer, courtesy of a celebrative Ted Simolzak. He began again.

“Anyway, you got your meeting. And I got a, uh, separate engagement later tonight. So what’s up?”

“I want to ask you a question—” said Condley.

“—the five-thousand-dollar question,” quipped Marino, interrupting him.

Condley took a photograph from the large manila envelope he had been carrying and laid it onto the table.

“This is Theodore Deville. Or at least this was what he looked like thirty-five years ago when he joined the Army. Five years after that picture was taken he escaped from Viet Nam and came to Bangkok.”

“That’s about when I escaped from Viet Nam and came to Bangkok,” said Marino cavalierly. “That fucking shithole. I’ve never been so glad to get out of a place in my life.”

“No, Sal,” said Condley patiently. “He really did escape. He was wanted on charges of murder and desertion. It took him four years to get out of the country.”

Condley dropped another photograph onto the table, this one of Mathew Larkin. “He looked a lot like this guy, and that’s why he killed him. Murder number two, at least. Took his passport, which was filled with exit visas to Thailand. I think he came here. I think he’s been here ever since.”

Condley watched Marino’s face carefully as the con man studied the two photographs. No visible reaction. Finally Marino looked up at Condley. “So what’s the five-thousand-dollar question? I’ve got to go.”

“Well, if I ask it you’re going to leave. So let’s just talk for a while.”

“That wasn’t in the contract.”

“How do you know? You didn’t read it.” Condley peered intently at Marino’s face, looking for the slightest gesture. “He had what’s called a signature when he killed people. He cut off a hand. Don’t ask me why.”

“Maybe he’s a hand collector.” Marino’s eyes smoked for one quick moment as if he was remembering something, even though he was pretending to blow the whole thing off. “You know, like some people collect seashells, and others collect stamps. Hands.”