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the hotel. Smoke curled from one wing. A siren wailed in the distance and was joined by another and then another. He checked his watch. It was only nine o’clock.
    He opened the door and went out into the corridor. Guests from other rooms were in the hall talking to each other in tense, bewildered tones. He heard the word “bomb” in Spanish and in English, and Castro, and rebels. A door opened along the corridor and the two men from the elevator came out and went down the hall to find out what was going on. They had pulled their door mostly closed when they left. Cassidy nudged it open with his toe and looked in. A movie camera sat on a table near the far wall. It was pointed toward a rectangle of glass in the wall. Cassidy recognized it from his time in Vice, a camera, a one-way mirror, and people on the other side unaware that they were being filmed. So who was it and who wanted the leverage the film would give?
    Cassidy crossed and looked through the one-way. In the next room, the young senator from the plane was on the bed straining through improbable gymnastics with two young women, one the color of dark honey, and the other of chocolate. They all seemed to be having a good time. As Cassidy watched, one of the women glanced at the one-way and then shifted to be sure the senator’s face was clearly visible.
    â€œWhat the fuck are you doing in here?”
    The two men from the room were back. They looked angry and dangerous. One had a knife or razor scar that ran from his ear to his chin. The other had the thickened eyebrows of an ex-pug. “Who the fuck are you?” Scar tissue asked.
    â€œNobody. Just passing by. Saw the camera and thought, cool, guys are in the movie business. I always thought it would be cool to be in the movie business.” He used the talk to close the distance on the two men. He figured the pug would be the more dangerous of the two. He’d know how to hit, and he’d know how to avoid getting hit.
    â€œThe movie business? What are you, a wise guy? What, you walk into someone’s room, no one asked you?”
    â€œSorry.”
    â€œFucking right you’re going to be sorry.”
    Cassidy swept up a ceramic table lamp and smashed it against the side of the pug’s head and then backhanded the wreckage of the lamp across the scar’s face. When his hands went up to defend himself, Cassidy kicked him in the balls, and then turned to see how the pug was doing. He was on his knees on the floor, dazed and bleeding from the ear. Cassidy kicked him in the head, and he fell over, unconscious. He turned back to the man with the scar. He was bent over, holding himself and sucking for air that would not come. Cassidy punched his head with the remains of the lamp, and the man went down hard. It took a minute to tie their hands with lamp cords, and then Cassidy took the reel of film out of the camera and left the room.
    The people in the corridor were at the far end where a window looked down on whatever was happening below. Cassidy went to the door next to the room with the movie camera and knocked. There was no answer. He slapped the door hard a couple of times with the palm of his hand.
    â€œGo away.” Muffled by the door.
    â€œSenator, you’ve got to get out of there.”
    â€œWe don’t want any.” Muffled giggles.
    Cassidy banged again. “Senator, it’s Michael Cassidy. The cop from the plane. You’ve got a problem.”
    The door opened. The Senator wore a towel and had a drink in his hand. “I’m very busy, Mike. I’m doing a little fact-finding in here.”
    â€œUh-huh, well you’re fucked and you’re fucked.” He held up the reel of film. The senator seemed to understand what it meant. His face turned serious. “I’m in room five-oh-six across the hall,” Cassidy said. “I’ll buy you a drink.” The senator nodded and went back inside the room.
    Ten minutes later he