Hark!

less like a Greek bodyguard than one of the Hollywood agents she'd known on the Coast before she got busted that one time when she was but a mere slip of a girl just learning the trade, before Ambrose Carter taught her what it was really all about, girlfriend. She did not particularly enjoy sex with big hirsute men. But in anticipation of her share of the seven-figure payday, whenever that might come, if it ever came, she would have gone to bed with a gorilla.

So where the hell was he?

OLLIE'S REASONING W R S that if he couldn't find the john she'd picked up last Wednesday night, then he just had to find Melissa Summers herself. No shortcuts this time, he guessed. Just the tireless legwork of the truly dedicated public servant.

It wasn't that he gave a damn about one dead Negro pimp more or less, which word he enjoyed using to describe so-called persons of color because he knew it pissed them off - not pimp, but Negro. Which words were eponymous, anyway. Or synonymous. Or whatever. Negro and pimp. In his experience, all the good criminal endeavors that used to be operated by decent white crooks were now the sole province of evil, grasping, upward-striving Negroes. He sometimes wished for a return to slavery. Wish in one hand, he thought, and shit in the other. See which you get first. One of his mother's favorite expressions, though not within earshot of his darling sister Isabel, who was probably still a virgin.

What primarily disturbed Ollie was that some little tart thought she could come into his neighborhood, his precinct, in the dead of night, and pump two nine-millimeter slugs into somebody, into some person's back

and head, no less, white or black, anybody, it didn't matter to Ollie. What mattered was the violation of his turf!

So watch out, Melissa, he thought.

Beware!

The Large Man is on the prowl, and he's gonna find you, you better believe it, ah yes, m'little chickadee.

In his mind, he sounded like W C. Fields.

He wondered if Melissa Summers even knew who W C. Fields was — what was she, twenty years old, something like that, in her twenties somewhere?

A prostitute.

In her twenties, and a prostitute.

No, a murderer.

Murderess.

Whatever.

And he was gonna get her.

HE LOOKED LIKE that guy in the Harry Potter movies, whatever his name was, ask any ten-year-old. The big bearded guy with the pot belly and the gruff voice. Except that he was wearing a black suit, and a black shirt and tie, black socks, and highly polished black shoes. The Harry Potter guy dressed up like a gangsta, gee! Or a bodyguard, she guessed, if this was her man, which she had no doubt he was.

She was sitting at the bar when he came in. Big ox of a man barging into the hotel lounge like he owned it. Steely blue eyes flicking this way and that like a cop expecting street trouble. Satisfied that no one was about to jump him, he sat some two stools down from hers, giving her a quick once-over before he ordered a double ouzo. Just a sideward flick of those ice-blue eyes, but Melissa didn't miss such things, Melissa was a pro.

She was expecting some sort of Greek accent — wasn't he supposed to be Greek? The ouzo and all? — but no, he sounded as American as she did. Ordered the double ouzo, checked out the bar mirror as if he was scanning the room, but she caught that sideward glance at her again, he was aware of her.

'I never tasted ouzo,' she said, bold as brass, turning toward him. 'What's it like?'

'Do you like licorice?' he asked.

Turning to face her. Smiling encouragement. Nice smile. Blue eyes becoming warm and friendly . . . well, why shouldn't they? Good-looking girl sitting alone at the bar strikes up a conversation? Hey, what am I, a fool?

'Oh, it's like some kind of liqueur, is that it?' she said.

'Yes, that's exactly what it is,' he said. 'Thank you,' he said to the bartender, who had just put his drink down. 'Would you care to taste it?'

'Not if it's sweet, no,' she said.

'Depends on what you think is sweet,' he said.

Little bit of come on there?

She smiled.

'Cheers,' he said, and lifted his glass and sipped at it. 'Actually,' he said, 'it's made from . . . may I?' he asked, and without waiting for permission, moved over a stool so that he was sitting right alongside her now, big shoulders crowding her. 'Jeremy,' he said, and extended one enormous paw.

'Melissa,' she said, and took his hand.

'Nice to meet you. Sure you don't want a little taste?'

'Maybe later,' she said, and smiled.

'I was saying,' he said, picking up his glass again, holding it up to the light, 'ouzo's a combination of pressed grapes, herbs, and berries. It's the star anise that gives it the licorice taste.'

'That's what I don't think I'd like. The licorice taste. Candy's candy, booze is booze,' she said, and smiled.

'Oh, this is booze, all right, believe me. Eighty proof.'

'That strong, huh?'

Intending a little innuendo there, which he seemed to miss.

'Some ouzos are even stronger,' he said. 'Your Barbayannis is ninety-two proof. That's forty-six percent alcohol.'

'That's strong, all right,' she said, trying again.

'It's not produced in any other part of the world but Greece, you know. In fact, it's the Greek national drink.'

'You seem to know a lot about it.'

'Well, I spend a lot of time in Greece.'

'Doing what?' she asked.

'My job.'

Avoiding the question. She tried again.

'Doing what?' she asked.

'I'm a personal bodyguard.'

'No kidding?'

'Yes,' he said.

'Gee. I don't think I've ever met a bodyguard before.'

'Well, that's what I am.'

'Come to think of it, that's what you look like. Big and . . . well, strong.'

Get it? she thought.

'Thanks,' he said.

'Though I guess you don't have to be big or strong if you carry a gun, am I right?'

He said nothing.

Are you carrying a gun?'

'Shh,' he said, and winked.

'I'll bet you are.'

'It's licensed, don't worry,' he said.

'I guess you'd have to. Carry a gun, I mean. I mean, if you're a bodyguard.'

'Well, you never know.'

'What does he do, anyway, your boss? Is he a diamond merchant or something?'

'No, no, nothing like that,' he said, and smiled.

'So why do you need a gun?'

'Well, I'm a bodyguard. Like you said.'

'Why does he need a bodyguard?'

'You never know,' he said, and smiled again.

'Is he a movie star or something?'

'Not quite.'

'How can you be "not quite" a movie star? Is he a rock star?'

'Close. He's a musician.'

'Ah.'

'A classical musician. A violinist.'

'What's his name?'

'Konstantinos Sallas.'

'Wow.'

'A mouthful, I know.'

'Is he Greek?'

'Yes.'

'Which is why you drink ouzo.'

'Which is where I learned to drink it, yes. But he performs all over the world.'

'That famous, huh?'

'Yes.'

'Which is why he needs a bodyguard, I guess.'

'Well, not only that.'

'You sure he's famous? Cause I have to tell you, I never heard of him.'

'Take my word for it.'

'So you just follow him around day and night, is that it?'

'Not night,' he said.

'Uh-huh,' she said, and lifted her glass, and sipped at her drink, and looked over the rim at him, eyes raised like an innocent virgin.

Are you a working girl?' he asked.

Busted.

'Yep,' she said.

'How much for the night?' he asked.

THE STREET WAS full of working girls.

Good-looking, too, many of them. This always surprised him. You expected scaly-legged whores, you got these sleek racehorses instead, they looked like they could be actresses or models, but here they were on the stroll. Selling themselves on the street. He could never figure it out.