The Green Eagle Score

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Parker looked in at the beach and there was a guy in a black suit standing there, surrounded by all the bodies in bathing-suits. He was standing near Parker’s gear, not facing anywhere in particular, and he looked like a rip in the picture. The hotel loomed up behind him, white and windowed, the Puerto Rican sun beat down, the sea foamed white on the beach, and he stood there like a homesick mortician.

Parker knew him. His name was Fusco.

Parker rolled over and called to Claire, a wave away, “I’m going in.”

“Why?” But then she looked toward the beach, and didn’t need an answer. She paddled over near Parker and said, “My God, he’s inconspicuous. Who is he?”

“Business, maybe. You can stick around down here.” He knew she wouldn’t want to hear about business.

“I’ll work on my tan,” she said. “Will you come back?”

“Yes. Don’t get too much sun.”

He let the long waves glide him in toward the beach, and when he waded out onto the sand Fusco was gone. He walked up to his chaise longue, toweled himself dry, slipped into his sandals, draped the towel around his shoulders, and crossed the sand to the rear entrance of the hotel. He was a big man, blocky, with a big frame and an efficient graceless way of moving.

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