“I’ll leave my cell on,” Barbie had said before she left work. “In case you need to call me.”

“I don’t see any reason why I would need to call you,” Eddie had said. He wondered if Barbie had had a bad premonition about tonight or if she’d checked the tarot cards or tea leaves or her goddamned crystal ball. But when he asked her, she said, “No, no, I’m saying, just in case.”

Whatever that meant.

When the girls saw Eddie, they erupted in cheerful greetings. Eddie Eddie Eddie hi hi hi. Nadia kissed him on the cheek, leaving, he was sure, fat, juicy lip prints. Elise and Gabrielle linked their arms through his, and, although he desperately wanted to disengage himself, he couldn’t risk offending them or dampening their moods. He tried to tell himself that the girls were merely going to entertain the gentlemen in residence. Nadia would juggle; Julia would sing “Send in the Clowns”; Elise and Gabrielle would be a third and fourth in bridge.

Together, the six of them approached the side door of 10 Low Beach Road. The girls were quiet as Eddie knocked—two raps, then one.

A very tall, lean man with crooked teeth opened the door. This was Bugsy. He was wearing a blue T-shirt, jeans, and a Minnesota Twins baseball hat. He looked slightly less terrifying than he had on the Internet.

“Greetings!” he said. He opened the door wide and ushered them all inside.

Eddie let the girls precede him, and then he, too, entered. The side door led right into the humongous gourmet kitchen, which was lit only by ivory pillar candles. Set out on the Carrara marble countertops were a lavish spread of sushi and ice buckets holding bottles of Cristal champagne. The girls tried to contain their squeals of excitement. This was how it should be done—a proper wooing—although plenty of times this summer, they had walked in on pizza boxes and a tower of empty beer cans. And, one time, on a half-eaten chocolate cake that had been crawling with ants. Nadia had confided that sometimes the mess was so bad, the girls became distracted because they knew they would be coming back in the morning to clean up.

It kill the mood, you know, Eddie? Nadia had said. Thinking we the girlfriend tonight, but tomorrow, we the maid.

Sushi was the girls’ particular favorite, and they loved champagne. Bugsy said to Eddie, “Want to stay for a drink?”

“No, thank you,” Eddie said. He wasn’t comfortable being inside this house. He wanted to get the money and go.

“You wear that hat all the time?” Bugsy asked. “Even at night?”

Eddie nodded.

“You get it in Cuba?” Bugsy asked.

“Ecuador, actually,” Eddie said. He was used to explaining that, although it was called a Panama hat, it was made in the town of Montecristi, Ecuador.

“You self-conscious because you’re bald?” Bugsy asked. Bugsy was also bald. He touched the brim of his ball cap.

Eddie didn’t want to discuss with Bugsy the things about himself that made him insecure, but he feared that to deny the statement would only invite a rebuttal.

“Yeah,” Eddie said. “A little, I guess.” He had started wearing the Panama hat in his late twenties, when his hair started to fall out.

Bugsy reached out to bump fists with Eddie. Then he put two fingers among his crooked, ruined teeth and gave a sharp whistle. Instantly, other men appeared in the kitchen, and within seconds, all of the girls were paired up—except for Nadia. Nadia, it seemed, belonged to Bugsy.

Eddie couldn’t bear to watch this strange courtship ritual. Already, Elise was kissing a man with black, slicked-back hair like a vampire’s. Eddie turned to Bugsy but found himself unable to broach the matter of payment. It was Nadia who came to his rescue. She said, “Why don’t you give Eddie money so he can vamoose?”

Bugsy tweaked Nadia’s nose as if she were his precocious niece, and then he indicated that Eddie should follow him out the side door. Eddie was only too happy to leave. He waved at the girls and said, “I’ll see you ladies tomorrow.”

None of the girls responded. They were working. He had ceased to matter.

As soon as they stepped into the mild summer night air, Bugsy produced a padded envelope about the size of a feather pillow. So much money. Eddie did his best not to seem grabby.

“They’ll come every night this week?” Bugsy asked.

“Yes,” Eddie said.

“Well then,” Bugsy said. “For services rendered.” He presented the envelope to Eddie formally, with two hands.

“Thank you,” Eddie said.

“Thank you,” Bugsy said.

There was a sudden strong grip on Eddie’s shoulder and a blinding light in his eyes.

“Whoa!” Eddie said. His Panama hat fell to the ground, and Eddie heard the unmistakable crunch of foot on straw, which made him wince. His third hat this summer. His final hat.

Inside, one of the girls screamed, and a second later, more girls were screaming. Eddie’s hands were wrenched behind his back. He was being cuffed. A man with a salty South Boston accent read Eddie his Miranda rights. He was under arrest.

The girls were screaming. Were they being hurt? Eddie wondered. Suddenly, Nadia popped out the side door and said, “Hello, Eddie, please, we need help inside.” Her voice was calm and casual, as if they had blown a fuse or required his assistance in opening a jar of pickles.

“Miss?” the Southie accent said. “Stop right there, please. FBI.”

FBI, Eddie thought. He wanted to run. He was Fast Eddie, the finest track star to come out of New Bedford High School in thirty-five years. If pressed, he knew, he could still sprint a quarter mile in under a minute. He could be halfway to Sankaty Head Lighthouse before anyone knew in which direction he’d gone. But then what? He lived on an island.