“Holy shit, you’ve got a sucker on the line. That’s a lot more than I make. I’m going to bill you for advice. The best I can tell you is stay away from any Latins. They’re behind all of this. We’re not sure but we think Castro might be back there, too. Plus the Miami Jewish Mafia. You get what I mean? I don’t want your ass shot off.”

“None of my business is related to dope or Latins, Dad. And I think Mr. Castro is a little too busy running a country to get involved in dope.”

“Everything’s interconnected, kid. Don’t forget it. Behind every Ivy League banker is a bubbling cesspool of shit. Everyone’s on the take. That’s why me and the little woman are retiring to Canada. Winnipeg to be exact.”

“What’s in Winnipeg?” Warlock couldn’t focus on the locale.

“Winnipeggians. They’re honest. The crime rate is almost nonexistent. It’s a little chilly in winter but so what.”

It was surprisingly blustery and chilly at the West Palm Beach airport, with one of those steady northeasters that hang on for weeks. They don’t show the cold days in the photographs, he thought. Part of the glumness was the mute relief of surviving yet another subsonic hurtle across the sky, a mode of transportation not the less idiotic and frightening for being so prevalent.

An hour later he was sunk in a tub at his small suite at the Brazilian Court, studying his restaurant guide and drinking a room service rum punch. The desk clerk had assured him that a minor heat wave was beginning in the morning. The tan-colored rental BMW was wonderful, with a spark that the poor Subaru would have envied.

Out of the tub he strode around in his robe, pondering the next move. He was bright enough to understand that reality was shot through with large empty spaces, spaces in which nothing whatsoever occurred. At his desk he laboriously marked out his key addresses on the map, turning to a state map to put a large, inane X on Key West. There was a minor sense of vertigo when he couldn’t locate the Brazilian Court. In order to get anyplace it was helpful to know where you were starting from. He would have liked to pin the maps to the wall to give the room the aura of a nerve center, but recognized the idea as imprudent. The place was not yet a home but a start had been made. He dressed for a stroll, then endured the manic indecision of putting on and taking off the beret a dozen times.