Harry said. “A big black guy wearing a loud shirt, looks like he can really take care of himself. And a woman. Small, brunette, early thirties, I’d say. Great little body, looks like class. Bernhardt picked them up at the airport, and the black guy checked in. When I got that far, I decided to split, quit while I was winning. Midnight, one o’clock, hanging around a hotel lobby—” He shook his head. “Next thing you know, there’s a security guy leaning on you.” They sat in the living room of the apartment Andrea had rented. The April night was soft and warm; drapes drawn over open windows billowed gently. Waiting for Harry to return, Andrea had taken a long, hot shower. Now, wearing a white terry-cloth robe, her hair in a matching towel, she sipped Glenfiddich over ice, watched Harry drink Jim Beam and water. It had been a successful night; Harry had done his job, no questions asked. He’d followed Graham and a young, dark-haired woman as they’d driven to a four-star restaurant.
