Hagan dropped us off at the Coral Court and Sandy went up the exterior staircase first followed by Steve and then me. I stopped at my door and said good night to them and Steve, who was stumbling drunk now, threw me a wave and Sandy winked at me before they disappeared into 49-A.

I paused, then moved down to the door they’d gone through and listened. I could probably have accomplished the same thing in 50-A with a drinking glass to the wall, but their conversation bled out just fine right here. The rooms at the Coral Court, unlike the glazed-brick-and-glass-block exteriors, were fashioned of flimsy stuff.

Sandy, in a sultry, slutty way that tried a little too hard, said, “Come on, honey, let’s go to bed.…”

“Don’t worry,” Steve said, “you’ll get your money.”

“What the hell kind of deal is this?”

“I got you here for one reason and I’ll tell you what it is later.”

Sandy’s voice spiked. “What’s wrong with you, anyway? You got physical problems or something? Shit, I don’t understand this at all!”

Steve yelled back: “Listen, goddamnit! I haven’t slept for five days. I’m half-gone on nerves, whiskey, and dope. The last thing I wanna do right now is fuck! So sit down and shut up!”

“Oh? Well, fuck you, buddy!”

“Fuck you too, you goddamn tramp!”

Sandy shrieked and must have been hitting him, because he said, “Stop it! Stop it! Goddamnit, all I want from you is to run a goddamn errand for me tomorrow.”

“What?”

“You do a simple fucking favor for me and I’ll buy you the biggest fucking bull I can find for that fucking farm of yours.”

Then she was cooing at him and when I heard the Beautyrest starting to sing, I guessed Sandy was plying her trade. I went to my room, got into my pajamas, slipped under the covers, and switched off the bedside lamp. Went over everything I’d heard and seen tonight, feeling more and more convinced that metal luggage held the ransom money.

I mulled calling my wife’s number out in California and talking to my son, but even with the time difference it was too late for that.

Considering what I had on my mind, I fell asleep fast. The knock at my door came so soft, it worked its way into my dream. But it grew louder enough to wake me. I crawled out of bed and cracked the door open.

Sandy O’Day looked at me. For a moment I didn’t recognize her—her hair was short and black now, carelessly bobby-pinned up. Seemed all that blondeness had been a wig. Her too-wide, very red, generously lipped mouth came up with a hell of a smirk.

She said, “That limp-dick jerk-off fell asleep on me. I think I had too much coffee at that dump we ate at. Can I come in?”

I opened the door for her and she swept in, a pink nightgown trailing after like a cape. She let it drop to the floor and unleashed her long-legged body, slightly plump in the best ways, displayed in a Frederick’s of Hollywood-style purple bra and panties. Her hair might have been tousled, but her makeup was working overtime.