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block. The street sign had been covered by a banner announcing a festival that started tomorrow. A dented Volkswagen bus cut in front of him, its rear panel removed to help cool the engine. Raising her voice, the flower seller said, “At the end of that street, hidden behind a big hibiscus hedge, is the Coral House.”
    “Gracias, señorita.”
    “You want to buy flowers?”
    He shook his head.
    “Maybe there is a woman you secretly care about,” she insisted, trying to get him to take a handful.
    Traffic had finally started to move, and Valentine frowned and drove away.
             
    Valentine had given Gerry and his wife a week’s stay at the Coral House as a present. They had both taken the ban by the Las Vegas casinos hard. Until Yolanda could get back to work, they were existing solely on Gerry’s income. Losing that had put Gerry in a real bind. He was thirty-six years old and, except for running a bar that had fronted a bookmaking operation, had never held down a legitimate job in his life.
    Walking up the path, Valentine was happy to see the place wasn’t a dump. The old Victorian two-story had a wraparound porch and rockers that looked like they got plenty of use. The reception area was right inside the front door. A prim little man sat at a desk, drinking herbal tea while balancing his checkbook. Looking up, he said, “Good afternoon.”
    “Hello,” Valentine said.
    “Are you…Mr. Valentine?”
    The guy didn’t look like anyone he’d ever busted. “That’s right. How did you know?”
    “The resemblance to your son is remarkable. They’re upstairs, room 7.”
    Valentine thanked him and climbed up a winding staircase to the second floor, stopping halfway to admire the black-and-whites of old Key West hanging on the walls, Ernest Hemingway’s grizzled, sunburned face shining out from several. He’d toured Hemingway’s home during an earlier trip and come away impressed. A nice place, but nothing lavish.
    Room 7 was at the hallway’s end. He tapped lightly and heard his son say, “It’s unlocked.” He opened the door and went in. Gerry was standing over the bed, attempting to change his two-month-old daughter’s diaper. He looked like he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, his daughter kicking and screaming her displeasure.
    “Let me show you how to do that,” Valentine said.

    It had been Yolanda’s idea to name the baby after Valentine’s late wife. Gerry liked to say Yolanda was psychic, and in this case, she was. The baby had his late wife’s genes: china-delicate features, black hair, and beestung lips. Holding her in his arms, Valentine often found himself feeling incredibly happy and immensely sad at the same time. He tickled his granddaughter’s toes and got her to stop crying, then changed her diaper. When he was done, Gerry lifted her into the air and said, “Grandpa’s a star, isn’t he?”
    “I changed her diaper, I get to hold her,” Valentine said.
    “Sure. Just promise you won’t bite her.”
    “Very funny.”
    Handing the baby to his father, Gerry said, “So what’s going on? The way you sounded on the phone earlier, I thought you’d won the lottery until I remembered you don’t gamble.”
    Valentine cradled the baby against his chest. He’d decided that grandkids were the greatest thing ever invented. All the fun, and none of the hassle. “I had a unique opportunity presented to me yesterday. It includes you.”
    “I’m all ears,” his son said.
    Yolanda came out of the bathroom and kissed her father-in-law on the cheek. She wore white shorts and a man’s white cotton shirt and looked stunning. His son had married a wonderful young woman who was a doctor. She also put up with Gerry’s nonsense, which qualified her for sainthood in Valentine’s book.
    “Thank you again for giving us this vacation,” she said.
    “Yeah, Pop,” Gerry said. “Thanks.”
    Valentine handed the baby to her mother and said, “I need to talk to my son. I hope