This is shit, he told himself as he offered the men some drinks.

They sat on varnished wicker chairs around the breakfast table, an inlaid door from a Cuban church, and talked over Chivas Regal—scotch, they said, was their drink of choice … they drank only the best. The request for the money would not come directly, Fire knew, so he was neither relieved nor misled when the slim one began to bemoan the officer’s life—the low pay, the poor conditions, the rotten public image.

They were misunderstood, the man said. It was not that they were cruel; it was just that Jamaican people cooperated only out of fear.

“You really think so?” Fire asked, trying to get a sense of him.

“Yeah, man. Jamaican people have a warrior heart. They born to hate authority. And American journalists don’t understand this, so they come down here and write a whole heapa things bout how Jamaican police wicked. But what about the people? I deal with them on the road every day. Them wickeder than we.” Then, as his partner followed him in laying his rifle on the table—a warning disguised as goodwill—he asked, “If New York send fifty of their police out here and we send fifty of our police up there, what you think would happen?” Before Fire could answer he said, “Our gunmen would kill their fifty out here because they wouldn’t fraida dem. And our fifty would go to jail up there because they woulda beat and manhandle the people dem and kill anyone they catch with a illegal gun.”

Understanding this for what it was—a threat in thin disguise—Fire responded with a threat of his own. Pretending to lean forward to refill his glass, he snatched his Glock from the small of his back and laid it between the policemen’s guns.

“Just want you to know I’m armed,” he said. “A lot of tragedies arise from confusion.” He leaned back and watched as they placed their weapons across their laps, their eyes blinking busily like lamps flashing an urgent message: Help, this will not be easy. He’s more streetwise than he seems.

“I know y’have a license,” the slim one said. “You really wouldn’t diss we da way deh. You smarter dan dat.”

“You’re the boss,” Fire replied. “If you say I have a license, then I have a license. If you say I don’t have one, then I don’t have one.” Steering the conversation to Ian’s charges, he went on, “What you say carries a lot of weight, which is why it’s important that we”—he turned to the fat one to include him—“agree on what you are going to say when you get back to the station. The stakes are very high … as, I assume, will be the cost.”

“You realize this is a serious thing,” the fat one said. “Your friend could go to jail for a very long time. The court-dem back up bad as you know. It could take a long time before him case get call … months. And ah know him as a farriner not used to the conditions we have down here. I hear up in America where him come from dem have toilet in jail for prisoner. Down here we have shit bucket, and we doan have TV, and prisoners have no rights. Anything could happen to him in there.” He took a sip of the whisky, closed his eyes, and swallowed. “That would be a tragic thing. But”—he glanced at the slim one—“we like how you flex, so we’ll try and work out a ting. And as you know, if you don’t help the police then the police cyaah help you.” He rubbed his hands together. “So where im is, by the way?”