many visitors, a few civilians waiting around. Maybe a witness asked to come down and look at a lineup. A woman asking if this was where her husband was being held.
Buck Torres had come out of a doorway and was already crossing the lobby when Raylan saw him. Torres holding what looked like a computer printout sheet.
He also seemed like he had something to tell, but was going to let his visitor go first.
"I'd like to speak to you," Raylan said, "about Harry's friend Joyce Patton. I know you think she knows where he is, as do others. You know what I mean? Like Jimmy Cap, and that's a problem I see facing us."
One thing, he could talk to Torres, Torres never giving him the feeling he was wasting his time.
"We know where he is," Torres said.
It stopped Raylan, coming like that.
"Harry?"
"He went from Joe's Stone Crab to Miami International, got on a British Airways flight at seven-fifteen, and landed at Heathrow the next morning, Wednesday, November fourth, at eight-thirty."
Raylan said, "Harry's in England?" squinting at Torres. "Wait a minute, you took his passport."
"That's why we didn't check international flights right away," Torres said. "Soon as we did we find out a man named John Arnaud, A-r-n-a-u-d, booked the British Airway flight through a travel agent on Lincoln Road. We show the travel agent Harry's picture and he says yeah, that's John Arnaud, a customer he'd had for years. We look into this a little deeper," Torres said, "we find out John Harold Arnaud is Harry's real name. He has a birth certificate to prove it, so he's able to get a passport in that name and renew it whenever he has to. In seventy-one, when he moved back here from Chicago, he changed his name legally to Harry Jack Arno, same pronunciation of the surname but a different spelling. Don't ask me why he did it, outside of it gave him a passport in each name."
"So he's in England," Raylan said.
"The same day he landed," Torres said, looking at the printout, "he took off from Heathrow at eleven-thirty on British Airways five sixty-six. The flight arrived in Milan at two-twenty p. M. He stayed at the Hotel Cavour three nights and checked out on the eighth of November, a Sunday morning."
"You don't know where he is now?"
"As far as we know he's still in Italy."
Raylan frowned thinking about it, until his eyes came open and he started to nod, saying, "So Harry's back in Italy," as though his being there wasn't a bad idea.
One time the Zip and Nicky Testa got in an argument over the punk having only a few words of Italian and didn't care that he couldn't speak what the Zip called his mother tongue, the Zip saying he should learn it out of respect. Nicky said, "The only reason you can speak the language, you're from the old country, so don't fucking give me a hard time, okay?"
This punk twenty-four years old talking like that because he was close to Jimmy Cap and felt he was privileged.
Once in a while the Zip would call him mammoni, meaning a mama's boy, or bambolino, a doll, or the worst thing the Zip could think of to call an Italian male, frocio, a guy who was queer.
Nicky would say, "Okay, what's that mean?"
And the Zip would say, "You don't learn how to speak it, what do you care?"
The afternoon of the day following the visit to Joyce Patton, the Zip arranged to have a talk with Nicky and brought him out to the lanai, the open sitting room that faced the patio, saying, "Follow me, stronzo." This time calling him an asshole.
"Stronzo," Nicky said, fingers caressing his bare chest, "what's that mean, strong? Like referring to how I'm built?"
"Something like that," the Zip said. This guy was so dumb you could say anything you wanted to him. Now he seemed restless, looking out at the patio where Gloria was sunning herself, lying on her stomach topless, while Jimmy Cap was upstairs taking his afternoon nap.
"You waiting for her to turn over?"
The punk didn't bother to answer.
"Tell me something. You go to bed with her?"
This time
Buck Torres had come out of a doorway and was already crossing the lobby when Raylan saw him. Torres holding what looked like a computer printout sheet.
He also seemed like he had something to tell, but was going to let his visitor go first.
"I'd like to speak to you," Raylan said, "about Harry's friend Joyce Patton. I know you think she knows where he is, as do others. You know what I mean? Like Jimmy Cap, and that's a problem I see facing us."
One thing, he could talk to Torres, Torres never giving him the feeling he was wasting his time.
"We know where he is," Torres said.
It stopped Raylan, coming like that.
"Harry?"
"He went from Joe's Stone Crab to Miami International, got on a British Airways flight at seven-fifteen, and landed at Heathrow the next morning, Wednesday, November fourth, at eight-thirty."
Raylan said, "Harry's in England?" squinting at Torres. "Wait a minute, you took his passport."
"That's why we didn't check international flights right away," Torres said. "Soon as we did we find out a man named John Arnaud, A-r-n-a-u-d, booked the British Airway flight through a travel agent on Lincoln Road. We show the travel agent Harry's picture and he says yeah, that's John Arnaud, a customer he'd had for years. We look into this a little deeper," Torres said, "we find out John Harold Arnaud is Harry's real name. He has a birth certificate to prove it, so he's able to get a passport in that name and renew it whenever he has to. In seventy-one, when he moved back here from Chicago, he changed his name legally to Harry Jack Arno, same pronunciation of the surname but a different spelling. Don't ask me why he did it, outside of it gave him a passport in each name."
"So he's in England," Raylan said.
"The same day he landed," Torres said, looking at the printout, "he took off from Heathrow at eleven-thirty on British Airways five sixty-six. The flight arrived in Milan at two-twenty p. M. He stayed at the Hotel Cavour three nights and checked out on the eighth of November, a Sunday morning."
"You don't know where he is now?"
"As far as we know he's still in Italy."
Raylan frowned thinking about it, until his eyes came open and he started to nod, saying, "So Harry's back in Italy," as though his being there wasn't a bad idea.
One time the Zip and Nicky Testa got in an argument over the punk having only a few words of Italian and didn't care that he couldn't speak what the Zip called his mother tongue, the Zip saying he should learn it out of respect. Nicky said, "The only reason you can speak the language, you're from the old country, so don't fucking give me a hard time, okay?"
This punk twenty-four years old talking like that because he was close to Jimmy Cap and felt he was privileged.
Once in a while the Zip would call him mammoni, meaning a mama's boy, or bambolino, a doll, or the worst thing the Zip could think of to call an Italian male, frocio, a guy who was queer.
Nicky would say, "Okay, what's that mean?"
And the Zip would say, "You don't learn how to speak it, what do you care?"
The afternoon of the day following the visit to Joyce Patton, the Zip arranged to have a talk with Nicky and brought him out to the lanai, the open sitting room that faced the patio, saying, "Follow me, stronzo." This time calling him an asshole.
"Stronzo," Nicky said, fingers caressing his bare chest, "what's that mean, strong? Like referring to how I'm built?"
"Something like that," the Zip said. This guy was so dumb you could say anything you wanted to him. Now he seemed restless, looking out at the patio where Gloria was sunning herself, lying on her stomach topless, while Jimmy Cap was upstairs taking his afternoon nap.
"You waiting for her to turn over?"
The punk didn't bother to answer.
"Tell me something. You go to bed with her?"
This time
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