“Maybe you knew somebody who looked like that. Or maybe you heard of somebody around here who got his hand collected.”

“Is that your question?”

“I was just thinking out loud.”

Marino pulled on his beer, avoiding Condley’s eyes. He checked his watch. Condley leaned across the table. “I really want to find him, Sal. He killed two of my people.”

“Simolzak’s after your girl.” Marino smirked, taking another long pull from his Singha. “It’s so fucking clear.”

“What makes you think so?”

“So I guess that’s your question?” Marino laughed, pointing at Condley and starting to rise from the chair.

“Sal, if you start for that door I’m going to beat the fuck out of you.”

“You got no right to say that to me. I’m a free man.”

“I’m paying five thousand dollars for this conversation, and I’ll decide when it’s over. Now, sit back down.”

Marino watched him carefully, measuring his intentions, and then sat back down in the chair. “I’ve known you for a long time, Condley. And I’ve never seen you so worked up.”

“By the way, she’s not my girl. I mean, not seriously.” Condley watched him for a moment, then grew quiet. “Look, I am sorry about your daughter. I wanted to say that for a long time.”

“She already knew, actually.” Marino recovered, warming a bit. “But you didn’t have to sleep with her.”

“That’s different. She asked me!”

“All right, all right, she did. That’s done, okay? Over, like history. I don’t want to talk about it.” Marino stared at the photographs for a long time. “You got any more?”

Condley pulled out another one, dropping it onto the table. “This is a computer enhancement. A guess as to what he would look like today.”

Marino’s eyes smoldered again, just for a second. He looked up to Condley and then back at the photograph. Finally he took a deep breath, as if daring himself. “I want to give you some serious advice, Brandon.”

“Brandon, huh? This must be seriously serious.”

“You’ve survived too long to be this fucking naive, man. Don’t be talking about this to anybody else. Not out loud, like you just did in the club down there.”

Watching Marino’s dark face and his skittish, bouncing eyes, a sudden reality settled over Condley, as scary as a heart attack. Perhaps the time zones and the jet lag had indeed numbed his logic. Perhaps he had forgotten that asking a question about a murderer in Australia or Moscow was quite different from asking about one in Bangkok. Especially if—

“He’s here.”

“You got a pen?”

“A pen?”

“What part of pen don’t you understand?”