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suffering straight into the house of crime. So instead of driving north on Congress, he slowed down and pulled into John Prince Park.
    Looking for an empty picnic table, he drove past fields of soccer players and parties of hospital workers in scrubs on their breaks. Most of the hospital workers were Latino, and just about all the soccer players were. Considering the number of gangs in the neighborhood, it was nice to see unemployed young men kicking balls instead of kicking heads.
    He spotted a vacant table on a slope going down toward Lake Osborne. There was no roof over it, but it was off by itself, peaceful and private. “Do you mind sitting in the sun?”
    â€œI like it,” she said, taking her seat on one of the concrete benches. “But can I ask what we’re doing?”
    â€œI thought we could look at the ducks.”
    Instead she looked at him settling in on the opposite bench. Behind him was a dense forest of foliage. If this park were Africa, she thought, he’d be a gentle rhinoceros coming out of the bushes.
    â€œZaratzian’s told me everything about you,” he said. “Anyway, everything he knows. So this should be the point when I ask for the rest of your biography. But I think you’ve had enough of being cross-examined.” He sensed he wasn’t calming her as successfully as he’d hoped to. She was wired as an electric fence.
    â€œSo,” he persisted, “here we are in our pastoral setting that was once underwater. In Chiefland, Santa Claus rises up from the water each year in diving gear. The kids are astounded, but he actually swims there through a network of underground springs. You should really like it in Florida. It’s just your kind of thing, all water.”
    â€œI’ve had enough water for a while.”
    â€œToo bad. I was hoping we’d put on a couple of oxygen tanks and flippers and go down right here. You never know where we might come up.”
    â€œWhere’s Chiefland?”
    â€œLevy County. Thousands of acres of preserve up there. People think of Florida as beaches and high-rises, but there’s a lot of wild country in this state.”
    The fact didn’t seem to get her too excited. “What are your feelings on wild country?” he inquired.
    â€œI have no objection.” She lowered her eyes to the picnic table, which, like the benches, was solid concrete so it wouldn’t be stolen. On the surface of the table someone had scratched Chango Rides .
    Smoker traced the letters with his fingers. “This cement picnic set-up is like the Himalayas. Built to stay. But over time, the wind and Chango will wear it away.”
    â€œMeaning?”
    â€œI’m as persistent as Chango. I’m going to get the guy who did this to you.”
    And then he was staring past her.
    She turned her head to see what he was staring at and saw five young men swaggering through the heat in oversized T-shirts with their pants dragging on the grass. She felt her body growing more tense than it already was. They weren’t homicidal maniacs like her attacker, but they were definitely bullies in a pack, looking to see whatever they could shake down from the money tree; if an easy target appeared they’d jump on the possibility, and here were a couple of gringos sitting at an isolated picnic table. Smoker sure picked a perfect place for bird-watching, she thought.
    She glanced at him from the corner of her eyes. He was moving his arm slightly on the table so his jacket fell open and his shoulder holster appeared. The rhino was showing his horn.
    The trajectory of the five young men corrected itself. To compensate for their momentary loss of face, they increased the degree of their swagger as they sauntered off.
    â€œWhat if they had guns too,” she asked. “What would you have done?”
    â€œThey did have guns.”
    Don’t rile the rhino, she thought.
    â€œThat duck over there,” he said