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Rainer’s clean. The employees, Hector and Davy, are a bit smudged. Hector came with his parents from Cuba and grew up in the Miami slums an orphan after they deserted him. Did two years in Raiford for assault, but that was five years ago and he seems to have been a good boy ever since. Davy’s got a long sheet, from joyriding cars in Cleveland as a kid to getting court-martialed out of the Navy for stealing. He worked for a while as a seaman on cargo ships outa New Orleans and got in some kinda trouble there, too. Word is he’s don’t-give-a-damn tough and not to be messed with. Supposed to have killed two men in a brawl in some South American port, but nobody knows for sure. Carries one of those pointed steel cargo hooks the way other thugs carry a knife or gun. Thinks he’s Long John Silver or somebody, and it’s unwise to argue with him. Of course, you’re unwise in that respect, aren’t you, my friend?”
    “Sometimes, in some ways,” Carver admitted. Desoto knew him too well. But then, he knew Desoto.
    “That was my one reservation about sending Henry Tiller to see you,” Desoto said. “Davy Mathis.”
    “I’ll try to avoid him,” Carver said, realizing he’d made up his mind. He was going to call Henry Tiller and tell him he’d investigate whatever might be happening on Key Montaigne.
    “You’ll avoid him like a mongoose avoids a snake,” Desoto said. “Still, Henry needs help. After what happened to his son and grandson, he deserves help. If he had anything concrete, the Key Montaigne police, or even the DEA, could jump into the game. But he’s only got his intuition, what he calls his cop’s instincts. That’s enough for me, ’cause I got my own instincts about Henry. But instincts don’t count in court.”
    Carver said, “If Rainer’s got two bona fide hard-asses like Hector and Davy working for him, maybe he really is into something illegal.”
    “Could be. But there are no outstanding warrants for those two now, so they’re solid citizens in the eyes of the law. In fact, they’ve been clean as soap itself the last three years.”
    “Or they haven’t been caught during those years.”
    “You’re going to work for Henry, right?” Desoto said.
    “Yeah, I suppose I am.”
    “Keep me posted and I’ll help when and how I can. Even here in Orlando, I might be able to do something. According to Henry, the Key Montaigne police might not be the most reliable. The chief there, Lloyd Wicke, thinks what he’s got is a case of senility on his hands.”
    “Henry acts in a way that makes it seem a reasonable conclusion,” Carver said, watching a tractor-trailer rumble past out on Magellan. The trailer had on its side a vast print from Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel ceiling, the one of God and Adam with their hands almost touching. In this version, God was handing Adam an orange. In Florida that kind of advertising might be meant seriously. How out of touch could Henry Tiller be? “Know anything about Wicke?”
    “I checked around. Didn’t find out much, but he’s supposed to be a good cop. I’m not saying he’s wrong about all of this being in Henry’s mind, but after talking to Henry, I’m not so sure. Anyway, like I said, Henry’s got a favor or two coming from the system. In this case, you and I are the system.”
    “I’m the one going to Key Montaigne,” Carver pointed out.
    “But I’d go if I could,” Desoto said. Carver believed him. “You work on your own, so you got certain advantages.”
    “You mean like irregular income?”
    “Anyway, amigo, you’re supposed to be a detective, so detect, eh? Worry this till you know everything and too much about it. Isn’t that what you do in life? Your calling?”
    “It’s what I do,” Carver said, thinking maybe “calling” wasn’t too strong a word. The music coming over the phone had changed. A woman was singing now; Carver couldn’t make out the words, but it was a sad song with slow, syncopated rhythm.
    “Go