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of trouble to create a safe situation for you here. And that includes using a name that no one can—”
    “Who? Who’s after me?” Jay snaps. “Maybe if I understood at least that part of it . . .”
    Public looks away, out the front window, at the harbor.
    “Unless you don’t know who it is,” Jay says.
    Nothing from Public.
    “That’s part of it, isn’t it? You don’t even know who you’re dealing with?” Maybe he’s misread Public completely, mistaken uncertainty for calculation. Jay smiles; he can’t help it. It’s just possible that they’re as lost as he is. “What do you know?”
    Public shakes his head, again, sardonic. “No. You first.”
    A standoff.
    The two men trade empty gazes.
    •   •   •
    C otton-ball clouds race low across the crest of the rocky island mass only to dissipate over a whitecapped open sea. The mainland, Long Beach, San Pedro, is a smoggy mass, like mold on bread. A slatternly, once-modern, teal-and-ivory hydrofoil ferry idles at the concrete landing, waiting impatiently for the last few passengers to hurryaboard, then breaks free of its moorings, drifts sideways, engines rumbling, and slides away, into the bay dotted with sails and boats.
    Jay watches the boat from the small, deserted plaza at the south end of Crescent Street, where in the summer portable kiosks offer island tours, snorkling, kayaks, bicycle rentals, and shave ice. An old man with a stand-up easel is painting watercolors of the casino on the point. A day-trip couple sits at a steel table under a faded, flapping awning, with takeaway coffee and colorful caps.
    A silver-helmet tour group on Segways whirs past upright, its weary guide droning a Chamber of Commerce wiki: “When Spanish explorer Juan Rodríguez Cabrillo found shore here in 1542, indigenous people had been occupying the island for over eight thousand years; they called this place Pimu and called themselves the Pimuvit.”
    At the edge of the bay the bow of the hydrofoil lifts and it guns away, dull thunder, leaving a contrail wake.
    “November twenty-fourth, 1602, on the eve of Saint Catherine’s Day, the galleon of a second Spanish adventurer, Sebastián Vizcaíno, sighted the island and named it Santa Catalina in honor of the princess and martyred patron saint of knife sharpeners, hatmakers, apologists, and unmarried girls.” And as the rolling tourists curl around a corner and disappear, “The Pimuvit were wiped out by syphilis gifted from the Spaniards, and were succeeded over the years by otter hunters, smugglers, prospectors, soldiers, film crews, adulterers, and William Wrigley Jr.’s Chicago Cubs for spring training . . .”
    A salt-pitted pay phone still offers service near the entrance to the main marine dock, the Green Pleasure Pier; Jay lifts the receiver, punches in numbers, listens to a phone ring on the other end of the line, and an operator answers:
    “What number are you calling?”
    “It’s a credit-card call to Los Angeles,” Jay says. “Can I give you—?”
    “I’m sorry, Mr. Warren,” the operator says, “but you can’t make that connection.”
    Jay toggles the cradle hook. Dials again, different number.
    “I’m sorry, but this call cannot be completed as dialed.”
    Same operator, not even trying to disguise her voice. Jay racks the receiver hard. Thinks. The phone starts to ring. And ring. And ring. He backs away from the booth. Sea gulls circle and scree.
    Crescent Street is empty. Faded flags snap and furl from shop-front eaves. An outboard motor pops, races, dies.
    A security guard stands hands on hips, akimbo, outside the ticketing booth on the ferry landing, sleeves shoved up and smiling, eyes behind dark aviators aimed directly at Jay. It’s Patterson, one of the federal denizens from Public’s L.A. safe house.
    He waves amiably at Jay.
    Jay turns away.
    •   •   •
    T here is an impressive selection of Catalina Island maps and trail guides at the tiny grocery store where