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is.”
    Wandering around the room, Conor said, “Teeny-Tiny’s been sweatin’ out his restaurant.”
     Teeny-Tiny was a reference to the origins of Pumo’s nickname, which had begun as Tiny
     when he was an undersized child in an undersized town in upstate New York, was modulated
     later to Teeny, and had finally altered to Tina. After a decade of working in restaurants,
     Pumo now owned one in SoHo that served Vietnamese food and had been lavishly praised
     some months before in
New York
magazine. “He made two calls already, man. Him and the Health Department are gonna
     keep me awake all night.”
    “It’s not really anything,” Tina protested. “I picked an awkward time to go away,
     that’s all. We have to do certain things in the restaurant, and I want to make sure
     they’re done right.”
    “Health Department?” Michael asked.
    “Really, it’s nothing serious.” Pumo grinned fiercely. His moustache bristled, the
     joyless creases at the corners of his eyes deepened and lengthened. “We’re doing great.
     Booked solid most nights.” He sat on the edge of the bed. “Harry can vouch for me.
     We do great business.”
    “What can I say?” Beevers asked. “You’re a success story.”
    “You looked around the hotel?” Poole asked.
    “We checked out the meeting areas downstairs, had a look around,” Pumo said. “It’s
     a big party. We can do some stuff tonight, if you want.”
    “Some party,” Beevers said. “A lot of guys standing around with their thumbs in their
     asses.” He shrugged his jacket over the back of his chair, revealing suspenders on
     which cherubs romped against a red background. “No organization,
nada, rien.
The only people with their shit together are the First Air Cav. They have a booth,
     they help you locate other guys from your unit. We looked around, but I don’t think
     we saw anybody from our whole damn division. Besides that, they put us into a grubby
     dump ofa hall that looks like a high school gym. There’s a Diet Coke stand, if that turns
     you on.”
    “High school gym, man,” Conor muttered. He was staring intently at the bedside lamp.
     Poole smiled at Tina Pumo, who smiled back. Linklater picked up the lamp and examined
     the inside of the shade, then set it down and ran his fingers along the cord until
     he found the switch. He turned the lamp on, then off.
    “Sit down, for God’s sake, Conor,” Beevers said. “You make me nervous, messing with
     everything like that. We’ve got serious business to talk about, if you don’t remember.”
    “I remember, I remember,” Conor protested, turning away from the lamp. “Hey, there’s
     no place to sit in here on account of you and Mike got the chairs and Tina’s already
     on the bed.”
    Harry Beevers stood up, yanked his jacket off the back of his chair, and made a sweeping
     gesture toward the empty seat. “If it’ll get you to settle down, I’ll gladly surrender
     my chair. Take it, Conor—I’m giving it to you. Sit down.” He picked up his glass and
     sat down next to Pumo on Michael’s bed. “You think you can sleep in the same room
     with this guy? He probably still talks to himself all night.”
    “Everybody in my family talks to themselves,
Lieutenant
,” said Conor. He hitched his chair closer to the table. Conor began thumping his
     fingers on the table, as if playing an imaginary piano. “I guess they don’t act like
     that at Harvard—”
    “I didn’t go to Harvard,” Beevers wearily said.
    “Mikey!” Conor beamed at Poole as if seeing him for the first time. “It’s
great
to see you!” He slapped Poole on the back.
    “Yeah,” Tina Pumo said. “How are things going, Michael? It’s been a while.”
    These days Tina was living with a beautiful Chinese girl in her early twenties named
     Maggie Lah, whose brother was a bartender at Saigon, Tina’s restaurant. Before Maggie
     there had been a series of girls, each of whom Tina had claimed to love.
    “Well, I’m