“No,” Milton said. “I want to talk to him and he’s going to want to talk to me.”

“I’m not going to tell you again.”

“Fine. How about this—go and tell him that I want to talk about a deal that will make him a lot of money.” Milton watched the man’s face and saw it: a flicker of surprise. “Come on. Do we have to drag this out? Go tell him. I’m not going to wait all night, so it’ll be you who’ll have to tell your boss how there was a man here who was interested in making him a lot of money and you let him walk.”

The man pursed his lips, took a step back and a quarter turn away. He cupped his hand over his mouth and spoke into his throat mic. Milton watched as the man on the opposite side of the balcony turned and walked toward López. He leaned down so that he could make himself heard over the clamour of the music. Milton saw the annoyance on López’s face as he received the message; then he leaned all the way out so that he could get a proper look at Milton.

Milton held up his glass.

López watched him impassively for a moment, then said something to his man. The bouncer spoke into his microphone.

The man blocking Milton’s way gave a nod. “You can see him.”

Milton smiled. “Thank you.”

The rope was unhooked and the man stepped up to him.

“Arms out.”

Milton did as he was told, as if being frisked inside a nightclub was the most natural thing imaginable. The man worked quickly and efficiently: right arm, left arm, right torso, left torso, right leg, left leg.

“This way.”

* * *

The man led Milton to López. The two blondes made their way out of the booth, casting reproachful looks over their shoulders in Milton’s direction.

“Five minutes,” the man said.

Milton slid into the booth. López had moved so that he was deeper inside, shielded by the curve of the high-backed bench. Milton sat down opposite him. Ziggy had found several photographs of López, and Milton could see that it was the same man, with the same hard eyes and slender nose. He wore a beard, and Milton detected the hand of a cosmetic surgeon in the absence of the fine lines that had creased his forehead in some of the photographs. He was dressed well, and his wrist—laid with ostentatious ease on the table—bore a thick gold Rolex.

“I appreciate you seeing me,” Milton said.

López watched him with a look of amusement on his face. “Do I know you?”

Milton shook his head. “You don’t.” He extended his hand. “Not yet, anyway. John Smith.”

López made no move to take it. “And what are you doing here, Mr. Smith?”

“A little business, I hope.”