Vincent wondered how come if he was worth nine figures, he was still being driven around in an ’84 Lincoln. They were approaching Stearns Wharf now, coming up on their left in the distance, the thing projecting a quarter-mile into the ocean, stores and restaurants and the great stretch of boardwalk standing on a thicket of timber poles. Seen in isolation, the place looked like its own world, a fantasy town on a bed of crooked nails. There would be guys fishing way out at the southern end, and he could see the wheeling birds—just pepper specks from here.

He said, ‘If you’re only worried about road rage or carjacking, then that’s fine. I just want to check there isn’t something else, so I know how often to check my mirrors.’

He was actually looking in the mirror as he spoke, wanting to see how Lamar took it. He seemed amused, but it was an odd moment, knowing the weight of the line was okay—not offending the guy—but at the same time feeling that there was definitely something else.

Lamar said, ‘That’s a good way to put it.’

But he didn’t answer the question. They stopped at the light at the bottom of State Street. On the left was a ticket booth for wharf vehicles, and across the intersection on the right was Deacon’s Restaurant. It had the corner site with windows on two sides, and at the kerb out front was a black Chevy Tahoe—black paint, black windows. The truck’s rear door was open, and there was a guy of about forty standing next to it, a leash in one hand and a Dalmatian at the other end of it, the dog hunched and trembling as it built a coiled stack of shit in the gutter.

Lamar said, ‘Huh. Here we go.’

‘This guy for you?’

‘Yeah. Breakfast meeting.’

In the Tahoe’s side mirror, Vincent saw reflected eyes looking at them. Then the mirror was a motion blur as the driver’s door opened, and a little guy who might have been Cuban got out and walked around the hood and opened the kerbside rear door. The dog man had clocked them now too, and the Dalmatian was barely out of its stance before he grabbed it up one-handed by the collar and tossed it legs flailing into the rear of the SUV. Vincent heard a yelp before the rear door slammed.

He said, ‘Jesus. Check out this prick.’

The dog man went into Deacon’s, and a guy in his late fifties climbed out of the Chrysler. He was big—maybe six–four—well over two-fifty, making a beacon of himself in a bright-orange Hawaiian shirt. Vincent watched the Cuban move ahead of him to hold the door of the restaurant, the dog man already lining up a window booth.

Vincent said, ‘We can get drive-thru if you like?’