“That’s who I am, I’m Steve Strand,” he said, as if reminding himself, and went over and sat on the edge of the bed as he stuck his stubby legs into some trousers he’d plucked off a chair. “Thanks for making time. It’ll be worth your while, I promise.”

The voice might have been M’s. It seemed lower here, but a phone voice can sound higher. And he could have been disguising it on the calls.

Or wasn’t M.

I sat next to Steve. On the Beautyrest. “Well, I promise you I’ll be fair. We want you to feel like you can do business with us the next time you have a windfall.”

The dull eyes tightened. “We ever met?”

I shook my head. “I’d remember.”

Maybe he recognized my voice.

“Well, we’ll get to know each other,” he said with a shrug. He looked at me the way a dog does a hydrant. “We’re just gettin’ ready to go out on the town. You’re coming along, right? What’s your name again?”

“Nate.”

“Nate, you won’t be sorry you met me.”

“I’m damn near giddy already.”

Steve laughed at that. So did I. Neither of us meant it.

Sandy came out in a four-alarm fire of a red pencil cocktail dress with a square-neck that showed off at least a third of her breasts. Once a man got past thinking contemptuously, “She’s for sale,” his next thought was, “How much?”

“Take me to the Hill,” she said to nobody in particular. That was the Italian-American enclave of St. Louis famed for toasted ravioli and roasted gangsters. “Ruggieri’s.”

“No,” Steve said, getting into a new-looking houndstooth sport coat that had been slung over a chair. “We’ll just get sandwiches somewhere.”

She gestured to herself and her screaming red sexuality. “You’re not gonna buy this a goddamn sandwich.”

He waved her off like they were married. “Okay, okay. But it’s getting late. Not everything’s open. I’ll take you for a nice dinner, but someplace near here.” He looked at Hagan, who was leaning against the wall near the door. “Know anyplace?”

“Harbor Inn is close,” he said with a shrug. “It’s all right. You can get a full meal, if the kitchen’s still open.”

“Harbor Inn it is,” Steve said, and Sandy rolled her eyes, hands on hips.

I said, “I’m not that hungry. I’ll wait for you folks to get back.” I was thinking about that footlocker and suitcase against the wall; I still carried lock picks.

Steve came over and put a pudgy hand on my sleeve; he smelled like Old Spice and desperation. “No, you come along, Nate. We’ll have a chance to talk. Get to know each other. Can you hold onto this for me?”

He reached in his pocket and got out a .38 revolver. He held it in his hand like this was a stick-up. For a moment I weighed diving for him, as death seemed a possibility and I’d rather it be his; but he shifted it to his palm and held it out like a gift.