MAX WASHED HIS face and shaved and made more coffee.
He sat out on the porch with his cup. The sun rose and in seconds his surroundings were flooded in brightness, as if a searchlight beam had been pointed down on the country.
He sipped his coffee. He wasn't tired anymore, not even hungover.
Max checked his watch. Six-thirty a.m. Same time in Miami. Joe would be up, setting the breakfast table for his wife and kids.
Max went to the bedroom and called Joe's home number. The phone was an old, rotary model.
"Joe? It's Max."
"Hey wasshappenin' man?!!? I was jus' thinkin' about you."
"That ole-time voodoo's starting to work," Max said, thinking of Charlie's priest.
Joe laughed.
"You in the kitchen, Big Man?"
"No, my home office. Soundproof. That way my wife says she don't have to listen to Bruce. She hates him as much as you do."
"Amen to that," said Max. "Listen, I need some information on someone. Is that going to be a problem?"
"Nope. I can do it right here, right now. Got the database right in front of me."
"How so?" asked Max, incredulous.
"Whole thing's online now," Joe said. "I do my brain work at home these days. The workplace is just for keepin' tabs on the little juniors, hobnobbin' with the brass and gettin' away from the family every now and again. Things've moved on a lot since you went away Max. Technology's like rust-never sleeps, always movin' forward, slowly takin' over what we're too lazy to do… Anyway, this search you want done could take time, dependin' on how many eyes are on the system right now."
"I've got time if you have, Joe. You may need to cross-reference with the Interpol database."
"Shoot."
"First name Vincent, last name Paul. Both spelled the way they sound."
"He Haitian?"
"Yes."
Max heard Joe's fingers typing in the information, music in the background, turned low. Bruce Springsteen's voice over spare acoustic guitar. He wondered if Gustav's Sinatra CD was still in the street.
"Max? Nada on the nationwide database, but there's a Vincent Paul on Interpol. Low priority. Listed as an MP-missing person. Brits want him. Scotland Yard."
Joe tapped some more.
"Picture here too. Mean-looking bastard-like Isaac Hayes on a really bad day. Big motherfucker too. They've got his height down here as six-nine and change. Probably straight seven in shoes. Go-liath baby! There's a lot of cross-referencing I've got to do here… There's a known associate come up. No ID yet. Machine's slow… Listen, this could take another hour, and I've got to see to the kids. I'll put this thing on auto-search-and-select. The minute I got it I'll call you. What's your number?"
Max gave it to him.
"But I'd better call you, Joe. I don't know when I'll be back here."