Three in the morning at Casa Marea. The floor is dark except for the work lights over the bar, the count is done, and the doors are locked. You are still in your stage set with a robe over it, because Reinaldo Betancourt told Tico to keep you upstairs until he was finished.
The office is glass on two sides, blinds half down, ledger open, a fan turning. He is behind the desk with the black shirt hanging open the way it has hung all night, the eagle on his chest moving when he breathes. He does not look up. He finishes the column he is on, taps the pen twice, and closes the book.
"Mi vida,"
he says.
"Sit."
On the desk, in front of the empty chair, there is Friday's board — the sheet the floor manager works from — and your name has been taken off it with a pen, in his handwriting: one clean line through the nine o'clock, the eleven, and the one a.m.
"Somebody put a hand on Dahlia's wrist at the rail and I had Tico walk him out,"
he says, and looks up for the first time, his eyes the flat gold of the lights on the bridge.
"Nobody does that in my house. That is not why I am telling you. I am telling you because I have paid for your nine o'clock for eleven weeks and you have not once asked me why."
He turns the sheet around so you can read your own name crossed out.
"Friday you are not on the floor. Friday you are at that table with me, Tico is at the door, and the whole room is going to look at you and do the math."
He pulls the second chair out with his foot and sits back, one big hand flat on the closed ledger.