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down and waited for all hell to break loose.
    There was still no reaction to what she’d done. The Jamaican was nodding in time to the Walkman’s lonely concert, eyes half-closed. The shell seekers and jogger were long gone, and the teenaged girls had packed it in. That left the woman who’d been in the Jacuzzi, who was shuffling toward the elevators, the kids and their mom. The kids were still there, splashing in the pool even as their mom stood over them, holding towels, pleading with them to get out. A minute went by. Then five. The sun was below the horizon now, so that there were only a few faint streaks of red left in the sky. Finally, as if he’d just realized that the night was almost upon them, the Jamaican removed the headphones from his ears, grasped the back of the wheelchair and, slowly, began to pushthe old man up the boardwalk, never noticing that his charge was dead.
    But when they reached the pool, the kids saw it. And Nico saw what they saw: the old man, lifeless beyond sleep, slumped in his chair with whitewashed eyes. And the bloom on his chest where the bullet had tumbled out into his lap, tearing a hole in his shawl.
    One of the little girls began to scream, and her mother admonished her, thinking the kids were fighting. Standing at the edge of the balcony, sipping her champagne, Nico could hear the woman, warning her daughter: “That’s it, Jessie, that’s really
it
, that’s the last time—”
    Then her voice evaporated, the wind died, and a frightened whoop cut through the air. Then a second whoop, as if someone were gathering the strength to scream. And, finally, the scream itself, cutting through the night.
    Leaving the balcony, Nico stepped inside and picked up the remote. Turning on the TV, she sat down on the couch and surfed among the channels until she found her favorite show. Channel 67. MTV
The Real World.
    An ambulance and three police cars arrived about ten minutes later, sirens blaring. A TV camera crew came soon after that, running through the lobby to the terrace, where they got some good shots of the bloodstained wheelchair, the old man being taken away on a gurney, and the Jamaican nursemaid, sitting in a deck chair with his face in his hands. Nearby, a dozen guests stood with tropical drinks in their hands, whispering among themselves and frowning.
    More than an hour went by before a policeman knocked on Nico’s door to ask if she’d seen or heard anything unusual. She told him that she hadn’t, and asked what the commotion was all about.
    “A man was shot,” the policeman told her. “Down on the boardwalk.”
    “You’re kidding!”
    “No.”
    “But I didn’t hear anything—I mean, not until the ambulance came.”
    “Nobody did,” the policeman said. “Not so far, anyway.”
    “But he’ll be all right, won’t he? The man who was shot?”
    The cop shook his head.
    “You mean, he’s
dead?”
she asked.
    “I’m afraid so,” the policeman said. “Murdered. You might even say ‘gunned down.’”
    “Here?
That’s horrible!”
    The policeman snorted, as if she’d told a joke. “‘Horrible’ ain’t the half of it.”
    “What do you mean?”
    The policeman looked embarrassed. “I shouldn’t say, but … it’s stupid.”
    “What is?”
    “Shooting that guy.”
    “Why?”
    “Guy’s name is Crane. He’s eighty-two years old. Cancer patient. Everybody knows him. Real prominent guy.”
    “So?”
    “So his nurse says, he’s got about six months to live when he’s shot. Maybe a year if he’s real lucky. I mean—” The cop shook his head with a rueful chuckle. “What’s the point?”

Washington, D.C.
2
    Talk about “flying”—she had so much energy! And not just today. It was the same way as the day before, and the day before that. Basically, ever since she’d gotten back from—wherever.
    Florida! She’d been in Florida.
    This morning, she’d gotten up at five (it was impossible to sleep when she was like this), reorganized the