light. Table 12 was empty. He looked around for Mr Heilbron, couldn’t see him anywhere.
He sat down, wondered whether Mr Heilbron had smelt a rat. He didn’t think so. The man had seemed keen for that forty thousand down payment.
The waiter ducked in under the umbrella, white napkin draped over his forearm. “Anything else, sir, or shall I bring the bill?”
“The bill,” said Jake.
“Is your friend coming back?” asked the waiter.
Jake saw what he meant: the glass with Mr Heilbron’s last Chivas was still half full.
He looked up at the waiter. “Did you see him leave?”
The waiter nodded in the direction of the street. “He went that way, with two dudes. Didn’t say whether he was coming back, that’s why I’m asking.”
“Two dudes?”
“Big shots. Spoke to him here at the table. He got up and went with them, over there, where the cars are.”
Jake peered up and down the street. No sign of Mr Heilbron.
When the waiter brought the bill, he asked: “Those two dudes, what did they look like?”
“One was wearing a baseball cap, and the big one with muscles and tattoos wore a fez.”
“Did you see them leave in a car?”
“I wasn’t looking; none of my business.”
Jake put the notes on the tray. “Keep the change. What colour were they?”
The waiter counted the money. “Race, d’you mean? You want me to lose my job? We’re supposed to be colour blind.”
Jake sighed. “Were they white, black, brown or green?”
The waiter shrugged. “In between, I guess.”
Jake nodded. He suspected they also belonged to Mr Heilbron’s clientèle.
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