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“it’s not my tree. But I live here.”
    â€œHow do I come here?” asked Nina.
    â€œI picked you up,” said Puggy, remembering how warm her body felt over his shoulder. “I hope I didn’t . . . I mean, I wasn’t . . .”
    â€œNo, no,” said Nina. “Is OK. You help me. Muchas gracias. Thank you.” She smiled at him. She had very white teeth.
    Puggy had never been happier in his entire life, never, not even the time when he was little and his dad, who was still around then, took him to the volunteer firemen’s carnival and let him ride the bumper cars over and over, his dad drinking beers and laughing and handing the bumper-car guy some bills and saying, “Let’m go again!” That was the best time he’d ever had, and this was better, to have this TV-beautiful angel smiling at him.
    â€œNina!” called a voice through the darkness, from the direction of the house.
    â€œAy Dios,” said Nina. “La señora!”
    Nina, thought Puggy.
    â€œI must go,” said Nina.
    â€œNina!” called the voice.
    â€œNina,” said Puggy, trying it out.
    Nina liked the way he said it. “What is your name?” she asked.
    â€œPuggy.”
    â€œPuggy,” she said. She pronounced it “Pogey.” Puggy thought he was going to float out of the tree.
    â€œNINA!” called the voice, sounding a little frantic, and a little closer.
    â€œI must go,” Nina said again.
    â€œOK,” said Puggy. He was used to people having to go. He held out his hand, and Nina took it, and he pulled her up, and she could feel that he was strong. She hoped her hand did not feel too rough to him. She had working hands.
    But Puggy liked the way her hand felt, and he loved the way she gripped his hand, a firm grip, as he eased her down onto a lower branch, and then, following behind, eased her to the ground. He dropped down beside her, and they stood looking at each other. They were exactly the same height.
    â€œNINA!” called the voice, now definitely coming this way.
    â€œI don’t think they know I live in their tree,” said Puggy.
    â€œOK,” said Nina. She would not tell.
    â€œNina,” said Puggy, trying to figure out a way to tell her that he loved her.
    â€œYes?” she said.
    â€œI’m usually here,” he said.
    â€œOK,” she said. She touched his arm, leaving her hand there a second. Then she turned and walked, a little unsteadily, toward the calling voice, leaving Puggy watching her, still feeling her hand on his arm.

    HENRY didn’t want to make the call from his cell phone. The first pay phone he found was on Grand Avenue in Coconut Grove. This was not the world’s safest place for middle-aged white guys wearing Rolex watches, which Henry was.
    Leonard, still woozy and seriously hurting in the head, stayed in the car, lying across the backseat. Henry got out, fed a quarter and a dime into the phone, and dialed a number from a piece of paper. Watching him, from a vacant lot across the four-lane avenue, were three young men.
    The phone rang once.
    â€œTell me,” said a voice on the other end.
    â€œThere was another shooter,” said Henry.
    There was a pause, then the voice said: “What do you mean?”
    The three young men started walking across Grand Avenue, very casually, toward Henry.
    â€œI mean there was another shooter, is what I mean,” said Henry.
    â€œWho?” said the voice.
    â€œI was thinking maybe you would know,” said Henry.
    Halfway across the avenue, the three young men fanned out, with one moving to Henry’s left, one to his right, and one coming directly toward him. They were still moving casually.
    The phone voice said: “Whoever it was, it wasn’t us.” Then: “Did you take care of the job?”
    â€œNo,” said Henry.
    â€œDid the other shooter take care of it?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œSo you’re