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man. Your checking account pays your bills. Your special account in the Caymans contains $774,526.” Maloney stopped to savor and punctuate the moment. He took a sip of iced tea and said, “You are earning slightly more than three hundred thousand dollars a year. There are cops and teachers and building inspectors with more equity in their pensions. Walter, we get what we want because we know what other people want. We think we know what you want. We’re not looking for drunken sailors or doped-up sixteen-year-olds. We face a challenge and we’re confident that you will help us deal with it.”
    â€œReally,” Walter said, because, for once, nothing else came to mind.
    Tom leaned across the table and grabbed a large handful of grapes from the silver platter. His eyes were sparkling furiously now. “A few years ago my mom had to go into a nursing home. She was a churchgoer, a devout Catholic, a member of St. Ann’s parish for many years. She wanted to go to the Catholic Home near where we lived. The home is connected to St. Ann’s church. For many years she did volunteer work there. She told me if she ever needed to go to a home, that was the only one for her. I went there. The nun in charge of admitting new residents told me there was an eighteen month wait. Walter, my Mom didn’t have eighteen months. I asked this nun what sort of contribution I could make to speed things up. I asked flat out how much money it would take. She said to me, ‘Mr. Maloney, if your dear mother was already on our list and we passed her over because a man, like yourself, gave the church fifty thousand dollars or a hundred thousand dollars you would be extremely upset, wouldn’t you?’ Then she stopped. Just stopped talking. And Walter, you know what she did next? She looked into her soul and had a wrestling match with Satan. It took five seconds, maybe six. When it was over she said to me, ‘But Mr. Maloney, if the contribution was of a certain amount, whatever that amount might be, I imagine that you and even your dear mother might very well understand.’ Then this nun looks me in the eye and says, ‘One million dollars, Mr. Maloney.’”
    Tom paused for another, smaller drink of his iced tea. “You know what I said, Walter? You know what I said? I said, ‘How do I make the check out, Sister?’ ”
    Maloney motioned to Wesley Pitts, who produced his attaché case from under the table. It was a big one, the kind that opens with a double flap at the top. He gave it to Maloney, whose body registered the weight. “If you work for us,” he said, “you’ll get four hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Add another fifty for expenses and you’ve got half a million.” He opened the case to let Walter see. “You are looking at half a million dollars right here. And underneath it, another half million. It’s yours.”
    Walter knew you don’t get through an airport carrying a bag with a million dollars in it—not these days. “You’ve got friends here in the banking business,” he said.
    â€œYes, we do,” Tom said. “We have friends everywhere.”

St. John
    â€œFive hits by the Harptones,” Ike crowed as Walter walked into Billy’s. “Billy don’t know no more than three.” He laughed through his big lemon teeth. Smoke came out of his nostrils.
    â€œâ€˜Sunday Kind of Love,’ ‘My Memories of You,’ ‘The Masquerade Is Over.’ I can’t remember no more,” said Billy.
    â€œWalter?” asked Ike.
    â€œThe Harptones are okay,” said Billy, eager to put the subject behind them. “But they ain’t the best. Not even close.”
    â€œI agree with that,’” said Walter.
    â€œFive of ’em. Can you?” Ike persisted, now apparently blowing smoke through every bodily orifice. Walter admitted his bankruptcy with a shrug. Ike