... Over the next couple of weeks Tommy made several trips out to the big store. He:
... - Shuffled pornographic photographs in among the postcards of Arizona scenery and local landmarks.
... - Left three raw eggs to ripen outside his window for a few days, then cracked them in the trash can in the men’s restroom.
... - Introduced a healthy dose of Ipecac syrup into the jug of milk set out in the coffee bar.
... - Moved, one by one, a selection of Anais Nin books into the children’s section.
... Finally, near closing time on a dark night when no one was around, he smashed out the window of a Ford Escort and made off with the purse on the passenger seat.
... Digging through the purse in the parking lot of a Burger King a few miles away, Tommy felt a pang of conscience as he pulled out the driver’s license of seventy-eight year old Helen Burmeister. But then he saw the latest James Patterson paperback tucked in there and the feeling went away.
... He kept the cash and tossed the rest in the dumpster.

* * *

.
... Since he’d worked late the night before, Tommy decided to spend the morning by the pool. He swam a few quick laps, his hands chopping through the water, legs driving him forward, until he was gulping air in great heaving gasps. Then he lazily drifted around on his back for a while. When he found himself dozing he climbed the short steel ladder and lay down on a lounge chair.
... A splash, and water spattered across his face. Tommy started up, suddenly awake.
... A woman in a black bikini glided across the bottom of the pool, crossing its full length with long, smooth strokes. She broke the surface and swam to the side, and he saw that it was Grace.
... “Aren’t you supposed to be working?” she said, smiling.
... “Day off,” said Tommy. “I’ve been working very hard lately. Very hard. And what about you?”
... Grace pulled herself ashore. In the bikini, the water on her shoulders and belly glistening in the sun, she didn’t look skinny. She looked sleek.
... “I mostly work nights,” she said, sitting on the chair next to him.
... “Yeah? Doin’ what?”
... “Not what you’re thinking. I’m a masseuse.”
... He laughed. “Funny you should say that, ‘cause I’ve been kinda tense lately. Lotsa long hours. Stress.”
... “All right,” said Grace, sighing. “One free sample. Roll over on your stomach.”
... Tommy complied and she straddled him, kneeling. Strong fingers kneaded his muscles, probing for knots and kinks. “You’re in pretty good shape,” she said. “Especially for someone who’s, what? Fifty?”
... “Very funny. I’m not a day over thirty five.” He grunted as her thumbs pressed at the edges of his shoulder blades.
... “Is this a bullet hole?”
... A .38, from a liquor store robbery in Brooklyn, when he was a teenager. “I had a mole removed.”
... “And this? This looks like a knife wound.”
... A junkie, desperate, waiting for him at the back door of the sports book. “I fell on some glass at the beach.”
... “Well.” She worked her fingers around his ribs. “Not as much tension here as I thought. Could be a lack of muscle tone, I suppose.”
... “Lack of…? I got muscles, I got plenty of muscles. Hell, you’ve got your hands all over them!”
... “Sure, you’re the Hulk.” Grace ran a finger lightly across his deltoids. “What happens if I make you angry?”
... Pain flared as she poked a thumb into the nerve cluster where his shoulder joined his neck.
... Tommy managed to roll onto his back but as he reached for her she grabbed his wrists, her grip strong as a man’s. She laughed as they wrestled, body on body. With a sudden surge of adrenaline Tommy manage to twist his hands free. He grabbed her around the waist and flung her into the pool.
... She came up spluttering. Tommy stood above her, smiling. “Hulk splash,” he said.
... They dried off and walked together back to the landing outside their apartments. “So, Grace,” said Tommy, “if I did want a massage, how would I get one?”
... She fished around in her pool bag and produced a card. “Simple,” she said, “just make an appointment.”
... Tommy watched her go before he looked at the card. No last name, just “Body by Grace” and a phone number.

* * *

... Two days later Barton showed up at Rusty’s. “Hey, Tommy,” he said. “Thought I’d come see how you were doing. What do you think of the book business?”
... “You’d be surprised, Barton. It’s like any other line of work. You put in the hours, do a good job, you’ll do all right.”
... Barton glanced around the store. “Looks like you’ve really taken to it. I’ve never seen the place look so good.”
... “Yeah, well, some paint, hot soapy water, a little elbow grease – it dresses the place up nice.”
... Barton leaned in close. “Can I speak to you?” he said. “In private.”
... “Sure, sure. Hey, Rusty?”
... Rusty poked his head out of the back room. “Yes, Tommy? What can I do for you?”
... “Watch the counter for a minute, I need to talk to Mr. Barton.”
... “Okay,” said Tommy when they had the back room to themselves. “What’s on your mind?”
... “Listen, Tommy, because this is important. We’re worried that someone may be after you, you or someone else we’ve relocated. There’s been, well, there’s been a killing.”
... Tommy thought of Sal Porcaro and stifled a smile.
... “We’re afraid that the New York organization may have someone in our office,” said Barton. “If you see or hear anything out of the ordinary, call me right away. If you see anyone from your old life, do not interact with them. Please. It’s for your own protection.”
... Tommy folded his arms. “Let me ask you a question, Barton. Why do you give a fuck?”
... “What? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
... “You hate my guts. You always have. If it was up to you I’d be taking up space in a landfill somewhere. So why do you care?”
... “Why?” said Barton. “Listen here, you piece of shit, there’s a goddamn good reason why I spend my time worrying about your safety. We can’t stop pissants like you from stealing and killing. No one can. It’s our job to take down the guys with the brains and talent to organize you stupid fucks into an organization that can cause real trouble for good people. I protect you so that the next time some asshole gets caught with his dick out he’ll believe me when I tell him I can protect him. That’s why.”
... “Nice speech,” said Tommy. “You’ve delivered your message. Now run along back to your office, and don’t worry about me. I’m a big boy and I can take care of myself.”
... “You sure talk a line of shit. Is that why they called you Tommy the Tongue?”
... “Your wife knows why,” said Tommy.
... Barton just laughed. “Fine. Good luck, tough guy.”