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addressed the three. “Remember Fort Lauderdale,” he warned. “Timing is everything. These wine bottles fell into our lap. We’ve done what’s necessary. We chummed the water.”
    “But we screwed it up,” Salvo said.
    “We can live with that,” Cantell said. “It may actually play to our advantage.” He considered his next words carefully. “A word of caution to each of you.” He looked directly at Salvo. “No screw-ups. Matt, if I hear you’re hanging around the hotel pools or trolling the skate parks, I’ll cut you out.
    “Our success depends on our anonymity,” he continued. “None of us can afford to be remembered. And Matt, just for your information, sixteen- and seventeen-year-old girls remember everything. ”
    “It’s not a problem.” Salvo’s eyes hardened and his jaw muscles knotted.
    Addressing Lorraine, Cantell said, “Makeup and wig aside, you can’t be remembered either. And we can’t drug him because that’ll set them onto us. So it’s tricky.”
    “I know,” she said. “Trust me, I’ll be careful. I’ll have tattoos in all the right places—temporary, but he won’t know that. And, trust me, he’ll remember them.”
    Salvo started to chuckle, but she stared him down.
    “You want to switch jobs, Matt?” she asked hotly. “Maybe he’s into boys. Who knows? That would get me off the hook.”
    Salvo tried to look confident—a losing effort. “Hey,” he said, “I’m going to be the most exposed of anyone. You want to switch? I’ll switch!”
    “Shut up, Matt,” Cantell said. “The risks and responsibilities are as equally distributed as possible.”
    “I’m just saying—”
    “Well, don’t !” Cantell said. “You take care of yourself. That’s enough.”
    He looked south of the mountain. “People like this . . .” he said, his voice drifting.
    Salvo looked ready to brawl. McGuiness patted him on the back. “We cool?” McGuiness said.
    “Cool,” said Salvo. He was anything but.

12

    L orraine Duisit recognized the man from the photo Cantell had showed her, another of those surprises that made Christopher Cantell such an enigma. It was as if he were two people, one of them so deeply buried even a lover could not penetrate. That was part of what attracted her to him, this mysterious quality that constantly surprised her, but it also put her off, worried her. He could be so difficult to read. How could she ever commit to that?
    Michel’s Christiania and Olympic Bar and restaurant dated back forty years. It buzzed with conversation and the melodies of a piano man. The split-level layout was divided into a lower-level dining room and upstairs bar. A pair of antique wooden skis was crossed on a wall that rose to a balcony used for private parties. If walls could talk, she thought, as she occupied a banquette in the bar close to the piano, with a view of the crowded dining room and out the open French doors to a small patio beyond.
    A man belonging to the face in the photo entered and immediately sized up the room, his eyes finding the single women, including Lorraine. She didn’t make eye contact—not yet. He took one of two open stools at the baby grand— exactly as Cantell had told her he would. It took several inquisitive glances, three songs, and a white wine until she felt the timing was right. She signaled for the check, and took a moment to pull on a sweater that partially covered her metallic-knit halter top. She left her cleavage showing.
    “Not leaving so soon?” he said, materializing in front of her.
    “The wine gave me an appetite. I’m famished,” she explained.
    “Then let me buy you dinner,” he said. “I have a table for one that’s horribly imbalanced.”
    “No,” she said, blatantly cautious. “It’s tempting, but no thank you.”
    “Because?”
    “Again, the wine. I tend to . . . to get myself into trouble.”
    “That doesn’t sound so terrible.”
    “Not for you.” She had a guttural, melodious laugh, and she used