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locked the window.
    It was a tailor shop, three sewing machines on worktables, bolts of cloth stacked on deep shelves. He walked into the store and looked around, checking the racks of trousers and jackets, and shirts folded and stacked on wooden shelves. He tried on a pair of white-cuffed trousers that bunched at his feet. He pulled the waist up higher on his stomach and they fit better, still too long but acceptable. Hess slipped a white short-sleeved sport shirt over his head and tucked it into the trousers. He chose a black leather belt from the belt rack, size thirty-eight. And a light blue sport jacket, size forty-four. The collar needed work and the sleeves were half an inch too long. Hess liked to show a little linen, although with short sleeves what did it matter? He posed in front of a full-length mirror, decided the white trousers were too much and swapped them for a pair of light gray trousers that were cut the same way. He took off the blue jacket and tried on a yellow one, decided it was too loud and went back to blue. He selected black espadrilles for stylish comfort, and a tan Bailey straw with a black band. The transformation was remarkable, Hess changing from ward patient to prosperous island gentleman.
    He opened the cash register behind the counter and took 150 Bahamian dollars. The manager’s office had a couch. He removed the hat and jacket, lay down, exhausted, and closed his eyes, listening to the sound of police sirens in the distance.
    In the morning he felt better. He scanned the street from the front window, unlocked the front door, walked out of the shop and down the street, hailed a passing taxi, and rode to Lucaya.
    Hess sat at an outdoor cafe overlooking the marina, sipping coffee, watching clouds drift in over the glistening turquoise water that turned a darker shade of blue further out. He watched Bahamian police in their distinctive uniforms patrolling around the docks, checking boats, talking to owners. When the police were gone he paid his check and walked down to the marina. There were half a dozen yachts with Florida registry. Two, he noticed, were from Palm Beach. He was admiring a big Hatteras from Fort Lauderdale named Knotty Buoy when a dark-haired guy in sunglasses walked out on the aft deck with a flute of champagne in his hand.
    “Just looking at your boat,” Hess said. “I hope you don’t mind.”
    “You a sailor?”
    “Once a sailor always a sailor,” Hess said, going back to his southern accent. “My last one was a ’68 Trojan.”
    The Hatteras owner smiled. “Last of the wooden boats. Nothing prettier than that polished teakwood deck and hull. All teak inside too. You have the thirty-eight or the forty-two?”
    “Forty-two. Twin diesels cranking out six hundred forty horsepower.”
    “Do twenty-four knots I’ll bet. Still own her?”
    “Sold it when I moved to Atlanta,” Hess said, total fabrication.
    “Why the hell’d you do that?”
    “It’s a long boring story,” Hess said.
    “Come aboard. I’ll show you around.”
    Hess went over the transom and climbed down the steps to the aft deck.
    The man came toward him, arm outstretched. “How you doing? Tony Brank at your service.”
    Brank was short and muscular, shirt unbuttoned to his navel, gold chain around his neck, longhair pulled back in a ponytail. Forty-five. “Emile Landau,” Hess said, shaking his hand. “Brank. That’s an unusual name. What nationality are you?” Wondering if he was a Jew.
    “Eye-talian. Brancaleone originally,” he said, pronouncing it with Italian flair. “I needed something shorter, snappier.”
    Hess could hear police sirens. “What’s going on?”
    “Some crazy bastard killed a nurse in the hospital last night. Police are looking for him. Searching every boat. You’re not the guy, are you?” Brank frowned, and then broke into a grin. “Just fucking with you, partner. Come on in.”
    Hess followed him into the cabin and through a salon that had a sectional couch