The west coast of Florida was losing its daylight, and a dusk chill blew off the bay. He set water to boiling for tea and stared at the phone, willing it to ring. He was eager to receive the call from his Mafioso friend, Louis Brancacci. When the phone didn’t oblige, he stripped his clothes off and walked naked to the shower. The linoleum was cold. He lathered, rinsed, then steamed for a while. When the teakettle whistled, he roughed himself dry. Hawker pulled on a pair of soft gray tropical-worsted slacks and an oxford shirt with blue pinstripes. He hadn’t brought enough socks, and he was glad the one washed pair left was the satin-soft wool. Hawker decided he wouldn’t bother with the Hebrides tweed jacket until he caught the midnight plane out of Miami. Graeme Mellor was wiping the bar when Hawker entered. “I haven’t seen you that bloody well dressed since your first day in town,” he said with a grin. “What’s the occasion? The big town meeting tonight?” Hawker took a seat and swallowed part of the beer Mellor had drawn.
