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market lookin' like a wuss."
    "Wuss?" Chop said, with a slightly nervous
laugh. "Hey, I asked around about this guy, shit he did to convince
Tony Eggs he's the guy to run the market."
    "Like what?"
    "Cut a deadbeat's nose off. Hand-fed it to
his dog."
    Squid stared at the shih tzu. It didn't seem
the sort of creature that would eat pieces of a person's face, but
with animals you never knew.
    " 'Nother guy," said Chop, "he had a problem
using Tony Eggs' trucks. Big Al shipped 'im back from Montauk
packed in ice between two tunas." He paused, had a sudden
misgiving. "Mighta been swordfish. He catches us, we're
fucked."
    Squid hotly rubbed his hands together, yanked
on each of his thumbs. "He ain't gonna catch us. I brought
disguises."
    Chop nodded absently, then turned his
attention toward the Lexus. "Lives in Jersey. Figures. Needs a
place to chill. Bet he has a huge house, big gate, doctors and
dentists all around. What a fuckin' world, huh?"
    A moment passed. Dusk was deepening, the
lavender of sunset being elbowed aside by the orange of
streetlamps. Squid stared off at the shih tzu, who was
investigating shallow pools of transmission fluid, windshield
detergent. Then he said, "Hey, wait a second. Didn't you tell me
the guy was little and the dog was big?"
    Parilla scratched his stomach. Detail was not
his long suit except when it came to cars, and he didn't like
admitting that maybe he was wrong. "Nah," he said, gesturing
vaguely. "The dog is little. The guy is big."
    Al Tuschman appeared once again in the
doorway of the store. His shoulders blocked the light and he
towered above a clerk who was gesturing directions. Squid quibbled,
"I coulda swore you said—" Chop Parilla cut him off, slipping the
Jag into gear as his quarry moved back toward the Lexus. "Squid,
hey— can ya argue with a license plate?"
     

 
4
    Big Al Marracotta, fortunate and lusty, had
arrived in time to stash his queasy rottweiler in the Conch House
kennel, to lose his Lincoln in the hotel's dark garage, then to
enjoy the sunset from the rooftop bar, seven stories above the
middle of Duval Street.
    He and Katy sipped champagne and nibbled the
obligatory fritters as a lounge pianist labored bravely, and the
sun was doused in the pan-flat water out behind Tank Island. Al was
happy. Key West. The air felt great and there were cocktail
waitresses in fishnet hose, and some of them were female. New York
was far enough away that he could forget about the headaches, the
arguments, and remember only the good things. Rolling trucks. Tons
of ice. Lobsters, crabs, and money. Seafood was a beautiful
commodity. Delicious and perishable. Like life itself, but more
so.
    Al had timing. He was draining the last of
the bubbly as the last of the red leached out of the clouds,
leaving behind a blanket of slate gray. Without lowering his
upturned flute, still hoping that a final drop might sizzle on his
tongue, he said to his companion, "Nice, huh?"
    "Very nice," said Katy. "Maybe we'll go out
now, see the town?"
    Al said, "First let's go downstairs
awhile."
    Katy dabbed her lips on a napkin to hide the
pout.
    They rose, and thereby became a spectacle.
Katy had her high-heeled sandals on; they boosted her like
afterburners. A high-tech bra made architecture of her bosom; Big
Al could have worn her boobs as a cure for whiplash. Her waist came
to his armpits, her spiky raven hair drew attention to his quarter
inch salt-and-pepper helmet.
    People watched as the two of them went
by.
    Big Al knew they did. Let 'em look, he
figured. He liked it. Let 'em eat their hearts out.
    *
    Chop Parilla kept his gaze locked on Alan
Tuschman's vanity plate as the short convoy continued down Truman
Avenue.
    At Elizabeth Street, the Lexus took a right
and headed toward the Gulf. After eight or ten uncertain blocks,
with a narrow slice of the waterfront coming into view, the
salesman found, on the left side of the street, the sign that he'd
been searching for. It was made of cypress wood,