The four weren’t actually sailors. They were Navy SEALs, special-operations-capable fighters who trained to the edge of masochism and liked to fly around the world and blow things up. They had muscles right out of a bodybuilding magazine. Their faces carried an aura of untested invincibility. The biggest one, whom Condley had nick-named “Statue” an hour before, now raised a finger into the air and made a circle, summoning the Filipina barmaid. Statue’s huge biceps hung like a ham hock as he twirled his finger.

“Hey, Maria, one more round! Give our friend two.”

“I’ll take one more, then I’m done.” Condley studied the huge man, then shook his head. “I’m telling you, Statue, Little Manila isn’t San Diego. You’re taking your life in your hands getting drunk around here.”

Maria winked sleepily at Condley as she placed a new bottle of San Miguel in front of him. “Brandon Condley, you got one more beer.”

“Sweet Maria. My little Dulcinea.”

She touched the back of his hand, giving him a smile filled with old memories and new promises. He smiled back. She was almost like a wife, except that he did not live with her and she slept with other men for a living. Truth to tell, he had actually been married to Maria for about five minutes a few years before so that she could get her green card and follow him from Manila after he’d been hired for the CILHI job. The marriage had been a perfunctory courtesy, like leaving a large tip for someone after years of outstanding service. And the divorce had been just as perfunctory as the marriage. Condley remained proud that neither the divorce nor the marriage got in the way of their friendship, because he genuinely liked Maria. He knew the tones of her voice and all the secret movements of her body. She was as comfortable to him as the bed he slept in as a child. She idly stroked the back of his hand for another second, then walked to the rear of the bar and continued wiping empty tables.

The sailors were the only other customers in the bar. Condley toyed with the beer bottle as he almost insolently continued to eye Statue and his shipmates. Condensation from the hot dank air had made a quick puddle on the bar. He absently drew little circles in the puddle. Finally he raised the bottle in a mock toast.

“You guys do steroids?”

The SEALs had noticed Condley’s faded Marine Corps tattoo when he walked into the bar an hour before and had bought him one drink and then another. But now they laughed loudly and elbowed one another, sharing a secret joke or maybe a kind contempt. Condley persisted, eyeing the squared muscles of their chests and the large deltoids that flared out of their loose-hung, sleeveless T-shirts.