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the building caught fire. The breath in Joe's body went small and trapped as he studied the photographs of the damage. The locker where he'd stashed his life's savings, including the $62,000 from the Pittsfield job, was in the corner of one shot. It lay on its side under a ceiling beam, the metal as black as soil.

Joe couldn't decide which felt worse - the sensation that he'd never breathe again or the feeling that he was about to vomit fire through his windpipe.

The article claimed the building was a total loss. Nothing salvaged. Joe doubted that. Someday, when he had the time, he was going to track down which employee of the East Coast Bus Line had retired young and was rumored to be living abroad and in style.

Until then, he was going to need a job.

Maso offered it to him late that winter, the same day he told Joe his appeal was proceeding apace.

"You'll be out of here soon," Maso told him through the mesh.

"All due respect," Joe said, "how soon?"

"By the summer."

Joe smiled. "Really?"

Maso nodded. "Judges don't come cheap, though. You're going to have to work that off."

"Why don't we call us even for me not killing you?"

Maso narrowed his eyes, a natty figure now in his cashmere topcoat and a wool suit complete with a white carnation in his lapel that matched his silk hatband. "Sounds like a deal. Our friend, Mr. White, is making a lot of noise in Tampa, by the way."

"Tampa?"

Maso nodded. "He still held on to a few places here. I can't get them all because New York owns a piece and they've made it clear I don't fuck with them right now. He runs the rum up on our routes and there's nothing I can do about that, either. But because he's infringing on my turf down there, the boys in New York gave us permission to push him out."

"What level of permission?" Joe said.

"Short of killing him."

"Okay. So what're you going to do?"

"Not what I'm going to do. It's what you're going to do, Joe. I want you to take over down there."

"But Lou Ormino runs Tampa."

"He's gonna decide he doesn't want the headache anymore."

"When's he going to decide that?"

"About ten minutes before you get there."

Joe gave it some thought. "Tampa, huh?"

"It's hot."

"I don't mind hot."

"You ain't never felt hot like this hot."

Joe shrugged. The old man had a penchant for exaggerating. "I'm going to need somebody I can trust there."

"I knew you'd say that."

"Yeah?"

Maso nodded. "It's already done. He's been there six months."

"Where'd you find him?"

"Montreal."

"Six months?" Joe said. "How long you been planning this?"

"Since Lou Ormino started putting some of my cut in his pocket and Albert White showed up to grub up the rest." He leaned forward. "You go down there and make it right, Joe? Spend the rest of your life living like a king."

"So if I take over, are we equal partners?"

"No," Maso said.

"But Lou Ormino's an equal partner."

"And look how that's going to end up." Maso stared through the mesh at Joe with his true face.

"How much do I get then?"

"Twenty percent."

"Twenty-five," Joe said.

"Fine," Maso said with a twinkle in his eye that said he'd have gone to thirty. "But you better earn it."

PART II Ybor 1929 - 1933
Chapter Eleven
Best in the City

When Maso had first proposed that Joe take over his West Florida operations, he'd warned him about the heat. But Joe still wasn't prepared for the wall of it that met him when he stepped onto the platform at Tampa Union Station on an August morning in 1929. He wore a summer-weight glen plaid suit. He'd left the vest behind in his suitcase, but standing on the platform, waiting for the porter to bring his bags, jacket over his arm and tie loosened, he was soaked by the time he finished smoking a cigarette. He'd removed his Wilton when he stepped off the train, worried that the heat would leach the pomade from his hair and suck it into the silk lining, but he put it back on to protect his skull from the sun needles as more pores in his chest and arms sprang leaks.

It wasn't just the sun, which hung high and white in a sky swept so clear of clouds it was as if clouds had never existed (and maybe they didn't down here; Joe had no idea), it was the jungle humidity, like he was wrapped inside a ball of steel wool someone had dropped into a pot