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Harry put out his hand.
    Fallon ignored it.
    “I’ll be out in a minute,” he said. “I have to take a piss.”
    He walked past Harry, went into the bar.
    The big man smiled, cocked his head at a table on the far side of the porch, facing the pasture.
    “Have a seat,” he said.
    Harry went over to the table. On the glass top were a cell phone, a pack of Kools, and small, compact binoculars. The big man took his paper and moved to another table a few feet away.
    He picked up the binoculars, looked out at the pasture. The two riders had dismounted, were walking their horses back to the barn, the woman looking at the ground. The other rider had a hand on her shoulder as if consoling her. From their body language, he read teacher and student. At the entrance to the barn, the woman swept off her helmet, and he caught a flash of red hair and the glimpse of a profile. But she turned before he could focus on her, entered the dimness of the barn.
    “My wife,” Fallon said behind him.
    He put down the binoculars. Fallon was looking beyond him to the barn.
    “All the money I’m spending for private lessons, and she just never learns,” he said. “Did you see what she was doing out there?”
    “I don’t know much about horses.”
    “You don’t need to know when someone’s not paying attention. She’s scattered. Can’t keep her mind on what she’s doing.” He pointed at a chair. “Go on, sit down.”
    Fallon sat across from him. His leathery skin had the nut-brownness of the year-round tan, and his upper body showed the definition of regular workouts. Fifties and fighting it, Harry thought. He wore gold on both wrists, a Rolex on the left, a thick-braided ID bracelet on the right. Harry caught a waft of musky cologne.
    “I appreciate your seeing me like this,” Harry said. “I know you’re busy.”
    Fallon took a cigarette from the pack, tapped it against the tabletop.
    “So talk.”
    He fished a silver lighter from his pants pocket, got the cigarette going, clicked the lighter shut.
    Harry said, “First of all …”
    The phone trilled on the table between them. Fallon picked it up, unfolded it. “Yeah?”
    Harry looked off toward the pasture. There was the faintest scent of manure in the air, mixed with the smell of freshly cut grass. He could hear the whirring of sprinklers on the lawn, the buzz of insects, and the sounds from the tennis game.
    Fallon had the phone to his ear, listening.
    “Tell him no,” he said finally. “How complicated is that? What the fuck do I pay you for?” He listened some more, then looked at Harry as if seeing him for the first time. He covered the mouthpiece.
    “Give me a minute here,” he said. “I need to deal with something. Wait over there.” He pointed at another table. “Lester, see if he wants a drink.”
    Harry turned. The big man looked up, smiled, and went back to his paper.
    “How many times are we going to go over this?” Fallon was saying into the phone. “Twenty-two, tops. No higher.”
    Harry pushed back his chair, got up. He walked past the table Fallon had pointed to.
    “Yo,” Wiley said.
    Harry ignored him, went into the coolness of the bar.
    “Find him?” the bartender said.
    “Yeah. I found him.”
    He slid onto a stool.
    “What can I do you?”
    “Corona if you have it. Amstel if you don’t.”
    “Amstel it is.”
    The bartender made his cigarette disappear, got a glass from the overhead rack and a bottle from the cooler behind the bar. Harry took out his wallet, found a ten. The bartender opened the bottle, poured beer carefully into the tilted glass, keeping the head thin.
    “Thanks,” Harry said.
    The bartender took his ten, rang it up, and put a five in front of him. Harry sipped beer. In the mirror behind the bar he saw Wiley come through the porch doors. He slid forward on the stool so that his boots were flat on the hardwood floor.
    “Maybe you didn’t hear him clearly,” Wiley said. “He meant for you to wait.”
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