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beer.
    Córdova shrugged. “They don’t tell me every little thing.”
    â€œFirst of all, they wouldn’t bring him all the way down to Florida to do it, would they, Luis? They got the exact same ocean up in Jersey. So Tony the Eel was already here on business.”
    â€œMakes sense.” Córdova nodded.
    â€œSecond, why didn’t they just shoot him? Knives are for kids, not pros.”
    Córdova took the bait. “Wasn’t a knife,” he said. “It was too big, the M.E. said. More like a javelin.”
    â€œThat’s not like the guineas.”
    â€œNo,” Córdova agreed.
    Stranahan made three fish sandwiches and gave one to the marine patrolman, who had forgotten about going after the lobster poachers, if there ever were any.
    â€œThe other weird thing,” he said through a mouthful of bread, “is the guy’s face.”
    â€œWhat about it?”
    â€œIt didn’t match the mug shots, not even close. They made him through fingerprints and dentals, but when they got the mugs back from the FBI it looked like a different guy altogether. So Metro calls the Bureau and says you made a mistake, and they say the hell we did, that’s Tony Traviola. They go back and forth for about two hours until somebody has the brains to call the M.E.” Córdova stopped to gulp some iced tea; the fish was steaming in his cheeks.
    Stranahan said, “And?”
    â€œPlastic surgery.”
    â€œNo shit?”
    â€œAt least five different operations, from his eyes to his chin. Tony the Eel, he was a regular Michael Jackson. His own mother wouldn’t have known him.”
    Stranahan opened another beer and sat down. “Why would a bum like Traviola get his face remade?”
    Córdova said, “Traviola did a nickel for extortion, got out of Rahway about two years ago. Not long afterward a Purolator truck gets hit, but the robbers turn up dead three days later—without the loot. Classic mob rip. The feds put a warrant out for Traviola, hung his snapshot in every post office along the Eastern seaboard.”
    â€œGood reason to get the old shnoz bobbed,” Stranahan said.
    â€œThat’s what they figure.” Córdova got up and rinsed his plate in the sink.
    Stranahan was impressed. “You didn’t get all this out of Metro, did you?”
    Córdova laughed. “Hey, even the grouper troopers got a computer.”
    This was a good kid, Stranahan thought, a good cop. Maybe there was hope for the world after all.
    â€œI see you went out and got the newspaper,” the marine patrolman remarked. “What’s the occasion, you got a pony running at Gulfstream?”
    Hell, Stranahan thought, that was a stupid move. On the counter was the Herald, open to the page with the story about the dead floater. Miami being what it is, the floater story was only two paragraphs long, wedged under a tiny headline between a one-ton coke bust and a double homicide on the river. Maybe Luis Córdova wouldn’t notice.
    â€œYou must’ve got up early to get to the marina and back,” he said.
    â€œGrocery run,” Stranahan lied. “Besides, it was a nice morning for a boat ride. How was the fish?”
    â€œDelicious, Mick.” Córdova slapped him on the shoulder and said so long.
    Stranahan walked out on the deck and watched Córdova untie his patrol boat, a gray Mako outboard with a blue police light mounted on the center console.
    â€œIf anything comes up, I’ll give you a call, Luis.”
    â€œNo sweat, it’s Metro’s party,” the marine patrolman said. “Guy sounds like a dirtbag, anyway.”
    â€œYeah,” Stranahan said, “I feel sorry for that shark, the one that ate his foot.”
    Córdova chuckled. “Yeah, he’ll be puking for a week.”
    Stranahan waved as the police boat pulled away. He was pleased to see Luis Córdova heading south toward Boca