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the tears dried on his face. "From the outside looking in, Joe? She was the hole."

Back at the hotel, the night manager came from behind the desk and handed Joe a series of messages. They were all calls from Maso.

"Do you have a twenty-four operator?" Joe asked him.

"Of course, sir."

When he got to his room, he called down and the operator patched him through. The phone rang on the North Shore of Boston and Maso answered it. Joe had a cigarette and told him all about the long day.

"A ship?" Maso said. "They want you to hit a ship?"

"Navy ship," Joe said. "Yeah."

"What about the other thing? You get your answer?"

"I got my answer."

"And?"

"It wasn't Dion ratted me out." Joe removed his shirt, dropped it to the floor. "It was his brother."
Chapter Fourteen
Boom

The Circulo Cubano was the most recent of Ybor's social clubs. The Spaniards had built the first, Centro Espanol, on Seventh Avenue back in the 1890s. At the turn of the century, a group of northern Spaniards had splintered from the Centro Espanol to form Centro Asturiano on the corner of Ninth and Nebraska.

The Italian Club was a couple blocks down Seventh from the Centro Espanol, both addresses prime Ybor real estate. The Cubans, though, in keeping with their lowly status in the community, had to settle for a far less fashionable block. The Circulo Cubano sat on the corner of Ninth Avenue and Fourteenth Street. Across the street was a seamstress and a pharmacist, both marginally respectable, but next door was Silvana Padilla's whorehouse, which catered to the cigar workers, not the managers, so knife fights were common and the whores were often sick and unkempt.

As Dion and Joe pulled to the curb, a whore in last night's wrinkled dress came out of an alley two doors up. She walked past them, smoothing her flounces and looking broken and very old and in need of a drink. Joe guessed she was about eighteen. The guy who came out of the alley after her wore a suit and a white skimmer and walked in the opposite direction, whistling, and Joe had the irrational urge to get out of the car, chase the guy down, and bang his head off one of the brick buildings lining Fourteenth. Bang it until blood rushed out of his ears.

"We own that?" Joe indicated the whorehouse with a tilt of his chin.

"We own a piece."

"Then our piece says the girls don't do alley work."

Dion looked at him to be sure he was serious. "Fine. I'll look into it, Father Joe. Can we concentrate on the issue at hand?"

"I'm concentrating." Joe checked his tie in the rearview mirror and got out of the car. They walked up a sidewalk already so hot at eight in the morning he felt it in the soles of his feet even though he wore good shoes. The heat made it harder to think. And Joe needed to think. Plenty of other guys were tougher, braver, and better with a gun, but he'd match wits with any man and feel he had a fighting chance. It would help, though, if someone dropped by to shut off the fucking heat.

Concentrate. Concentrate. You are about to be presented with a problem that you have to fix. How do you relieve the U.S. Navy of sixty crates of weaponry without them killing or maiming you?

As they walked up the steps of the Circulo Cubano a woman came out the front door to greet them.

The truth was, Joe did have an idea about how to remove the weapons, but now it went right out of his head because he was looking at the woman and she was looking at him, recognition blossoming. It was the woman he'd seen on the train platform yesterday, the one with skin the color of brass and long thick hair as black as anything Joe had ever seen except, perhaps, her eyes, which were just as dark and locked on him as he approached.

"Senor Coughlin?" She held out a hand.

"Yes." He shook her hand.

"Graciela Corrales." She slipped her hand out of his. "You're late."

She led them inside across a black and white tile floor to a white marble staircase. It was much cooler in here, the high ceilings and dark wood paneling and all the tile and marble managing to keep the heat at bay for a few hours longer.

Graciela Corrales spoke with her back to Joe and Dion. "You are from Boston, yes?"

"Yes," Joe said.

"Do all men