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at John’s later?”
    “I will.” I took a warming sip; this was awkward. “I’m afraid this visit has a bit of an official tinge, and wanted to speak to you privately. Do you know a man called Artemis Paul?”
    Bernie looked away, considering. He was still the same old Bernie, physically; still a compact, strong-looking 5'10" and 15 stone. But there was more grey than I remembered in his thinning sandy hair; while he was still reasonably fit, the skin of his face suddenly looked loose, like a badly-fitted slipcover. “Rings a bell,” he said noncommittally. “Should I know him?”
    “He tried to kill me last night.”
    Bernie put down his glass. “Yes, I heard – it was on the news. Bloody maniac!”
    “The reason I’m here... look, this is awkward. But I was poking ‘round the client list on his computer, and there you were. A hundred thousand pounds is a lot of money. But not, I would’ve thought, to you.”
    “Look, Dex.” He set down his glass, then picked it up again and drained it. “When I heard what Paul had done, I thought you might be coming to see me. You and I have known each other a long time. We’ve been teammates for over 30 years. In some ways, we’re closer than brothers – you certainly know things about me my brother doesn’t, and never will. If I tell you, in confidence, why I went to Paul, can you keep it confidential?”
    I thought about that. There were plenty of other names on Paul’s client list. But I owed Bernie an honest answer, at least. “You haven’t committed a crime, I assume. Have his collectors been to see you?” He shook his head. “Then there’s a chance you’ll be asked to testify against him, but I doubt it. We’ll be more interested in the clients he’s roughed up. Certainly your reasons for borrowing the money shouldn’t be an issue in court, even if you are called to testify. But there’s always a chance it could come out on cross.”
    He sighed and poured himself another stiff drink. “But you’re curious?”
    “Not curious enough to get out the thumbscrews. But Bernie, if you’re in trouble with someone...”
    “Tell me, Dex. When we were on tour in Vegas, did you go to Suite 455?”
    “Suite 455?” I searched my somewhat clouded memory; after a moment, the light came on. “Ah... our anonymous benefactor.” During our stay in Vegas, a note had been slipped under each of our doors. It read: “An anonymous benefactor wishes it to be known that Suite 455 has been booked through the weekend for the discreet use of any Hastewicke Gentleman. Time is available in four-hour blocks. Please book in advance with the tour secretary.”
    I shook my head. “No, there was no need. I was rooming with The Gland – he didn’t spend a single night in our room. What about Suite 455?”
    Bernie looked up then, and in his eyes I saw infinite regret. “Ask John,” was all he would say.                                                       
     
     
    II
     
     
    A few minutes later I stood outside Bernie’s house, still pondering this enigmatic reply. A black cab approached the curb, and I absent-mindedly hailed it. Then the taxi door opened, and as the passenger stepped out, all thoughts of the mysterious Suite 455 were driven from my head.
     
    I thought, as I always did, that the years had been extraordinarily gentle with her – the same slim figure, the same lustrous, curly, shoulder-length honey-colored hair, the same perfect skin, the color of warm desert sand. Rarer still, the weary weight of time had failed to dim the ethereal intelligence and earthy good humor that shone from her face like the halo ‘round a Botticelli Madonna.
    I had seen her many times in the 15 years since our brief intimacy – after all, she had been Bernie’s wife all that time. But I felt the old familiar pain all the same. When she saw me, her eyes kindled with pleasure. “Dex! What brings you to darken our