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“No,” I said. What else could I say? My parents were both dead. I had a brother whom I never saw. So I had no family. No idea whether I wanted one, either. Maybe, maybe not.
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“But I just saw her,” I said. “Twenty minutes ago. She’s OK. Nothing happened to her.”
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“He’s an old friend,” I said. “I remembered him saying he works here, so I thought I’d look him up while I’m passing through.”
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Finlay was at the desk. The tape recorder was there. The stiff cords trailed. The air was still and cool. Finlay looked harassed. His tie was pulled down. He blew out a big lungful of air in a rueful hiss. I sat down in the chair and Finlay waved Baker out of the room. The door closed softly behind him.
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The bed was too short for me, but most beds are. I lay there in the dark and listened to the restless prison. Then I closed my eyes and floated back to Jamaica with Roscoe. I must have fallen asleep there with her because the next thing I knew it was Saturday. I was still in prison. And an even worse day was beginning.
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“You tell me,” I said. “I wasn’t there. I was in Tampa at midnight.”
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