Vincent looked back at him along the gun. ‘How you doing, Delroy?’

‘It’s Mr Clemons, actually.’ He started on something else, and then hesitated, lips ajar. He said, ‘Thieves don’t normally dress that slick.’ Nodding at him. ‘No cash on me, but I’m sure there’s something in the house.’

Vincent said, ‘What’s the first thing that comes into your head when I say thirty million dollars?’

Delroy smiled broadly. He seemed happy enough, looking at the muzzle of a twelve-gauge Remington. He said, ‘First thought? Yes, please.’

Vincent said, ‘How about you, Terry?’

‘Put the gun down. C’mon.’ Wincing at him slightly, the whiskey glass still hanging in one hand.

Vincent said, ‘Maybe we should’ve said that this morning. Maybe they wouldn’t have shot everyone.’

The bass from next door was still counting in double time. Vincent felt the phone in his pocket again—buzzing continuously. Beauden trying to call him.

Page said, ‘What do you want?’

Vincent still had the shotgun aimed at Delroy, and he looked sideways across the stock at Page. The guy’s face was slack and pale.

Vincent said, ‘You don’t know who I am?’

No answer.

Vincent said, ‘You must’ve heard? Three guys got sent to kill Lamar, but only one came back. I got the other two.’

Now Page had a hand up, outstretched, like he could somehow rearrange the picture. ‘Look, please—’

And Delroy said, ‘Terry, chill, chill, chill. Come on.’ Then to Vincent: ‘You’re Erin Jones’s man now, huh?’ He shrugged. ‘Wonderful. It’s one thing, isn’t it, shooting a guy dead when they come after you, break into your house. But why’d you think this’ll fix anything?’ Raising his hands and arching back slightly in his chair. ‘We’re not the problem here. We’re just trying to get out of it. We’re not the problem, man. Swear to God.’

How long had he been here? A minute? He needed to be in and out, and this Delroy guy knew it, taking it slow.

Vincent said, ‘What are you doing here?’

Delroy said, ‘I help people with problems. I’m a fixer.’ Settling lower in his chair. ‘Hence I’m here, helping Mr Page.’

Vincent said, ‘Why did I find you outside Erin Jones’s hotel tonight?’

‘Because she called up, implying things would turn bad for Terry.’ He looked at Page. ‘I think she got the wrong end of it. In fact, I know she did. But anyway. I’m the guy who gets sent to check she won’t do something stupid.’

Vincent looked at Page, saw him looking back with the kind of fear that was exonerating: he didn’t look like a guy who phoned up hit squads for a daylight murder. He looked like a guy in over his head. Part of it, but not pulling the strings. He felt the phone in his pocket: buzzing, buzzing, buzzing.