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The diner off Dixie was a greasy spoon hole in the wall. Noon light came through the blinds in hard stripes across the booth where Burke sat. His badge was on his belt but hidden under the sport coat. No need to drawn attention.

Across from him, Alvarez slid in. Same guy who used to take punches for him in the Golden Gloves gym on Flagler back when they were kids. Now wearing a tie, Bureau-issued, neat knot.

Burke said, “You still drink coffee, or that’s off-limits in your line of work?”

Alvarez waved at the waitress. “Black.” Then to Burke: “You been busy.”

Burke leaned back, tried a smile. “Lot of guys get busy in this town.”

“Yeah, but not all of ’em take envelopes in a parking lot behind the dog track.”

The smile stuck halfway. He picked up a sugar packet, worked it between his fingers. “You been following me?”

“Not me. Whole squad. They like you for skimming dope cash. Couple shootings.”

Burke tapped the sugar packet against the Formica. He wanted to ask how much they had, but that would sound guilty. He said, “We go back, Manny. Long time. You think I’m dirty?”

“I think I know you better than anybody. Which is why they put me on it.” Alvarez leaned in, voice low. “I’ll give you one chance to tell me what the hell you’re into before it all comes down.”

Burke looked at the stripes of light cutting Alvarez’s face in two. The part he remembered from the gym—loyal, swinging wild—and the part he didn’t recognize, calm, federal, already writing him off.

The waitress dropped the coffee between them. Neither touched it.

Burke said, “One chance, huh? That don’t sound like friendship. Sounds like leverage.”

Alvarez didn’t blink. “Call it whatever you want. Clock’s running.”