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stared at the biggest ride in the parking lot. “I want to ride the Tilt-A-Whirl.”
    “The carnival isn’t open yet, amigo,” said Arturo.
    Vlad was already on his way.
    For the next half hour, Arturo watched Vlad going round and round on the Tilt-A-Whirl all by himself, smiling broadly, whooping it up.
    The first time Arturo had invited Vlad over for dinner, his wife had been furious. Fortuna had said that Vlad was too white, that he was in league with
el diablo.
Vlad had been on his best behavior that night, bringing presents for the children—coloring books and remote-control race cars, Barbies and G.I. Joe walkie-talkies—but the toys did not soothe Fortuna. Cradling the crucifix that he had bought for her in Mexico City, the one blessed by the Holy Father himself, she had collected the gifts after Vlad left, and thrown them all away.
    Arturo thought Fortuna spent too much time at Mass, but she was his wife, and the children were her responsibility. If she wanted to throw out perfectly good toys, that was her decision. But when she told him that she didn’t want Vlad in the house anymore, Arturo told her that such things were for
him
to decide, and when she insisted, clutching at his arm, Arturo threw her down with a flick of his wrist, told her if she asked him again, he would break her jaw, and then his mother would have to stay with them while she recovered. They never spoke of it again, and Vlad came over for dinner at least once a week.
    “Arturo!” Vlad waved from the top of the Tilt-A-Whirl. “Arturo!”
    Arturo waved back. If Fortuna could see Vlad now, she would be ashamed of herself. How could someone who took such delight in small things be in league with the devil?

7
    “This good deed of yours, Frank, what a colossal waste of talent.” Billy hadn’t said a word during Thorpe’s story, just sat there, impassive, but he couldn’t hold back now. “A wake-up . . . just because some businessman smacked a child in the face? You think the boy has never been smacked before?”
    “Not in front of me.”
    “What do you expect the art dealer to do,
apologize
?”
    “I already gave him a chance to do that, but he declined.”
    Billy stared at Thorpe, the tumble of bowling pins crashing around them. “You’re serious.” The three of them sat on the bench of lane number 24, secure in their privacy. “Look, if you want to sharpen your claws, that’s a
good
sign, a healthy sign, but why bother with this art dealer? I have more challenging targets for you.”
    “Software engineers? No thanks.”
    “You’ll use your talents for Uncle Sam but not for me? Not for
your
self? What are you, a patriot?” Billy’s laugh boomed. “You were bounced out of the military, bounced out of the shop; you don’t owe your country anything. It’s time to grab what’s on the table.”
    “I’m going to pass.”
    Billy shook his head, amused. “Have it your way. The offer still stands.” He took a deep breath, spread his hands in an attitude of forgiveness. “I’m simply suggesting that this wake-up of yours is a thoughtless indulgence, as narcissistic as your vendetta against the Engineer.”
    Thorpe leaned closer, right in Billy’s face now. “I don’t need your approval.”
    “Temper, temper, but do you honestly think Kimberly would be targeting the Engineer if
you
had been the one murdered in the safe house?”
    “You didn’t know her, Billy.”
    “I
hired
her, Frank. Just like I hired you.”
    “You didn’t know her.”
    Billy eased back. “I’m simply suggesting that getting emotionally involved is risky, risky for you, risky for everyone around you. You’re a professional, so is the Engineer. You squeezed him, and he turned it back on you. If you could get some distance—”
    Thorpe put a hand on Billy’s shoulder, felt the big man tense as he drew him closer. Billy liked touching, but he didn’t like being touched. Thorpe kept his hand where it was. “That’s the problem, Billy.