Clinton at certain moments found himself believing that Berry-berry had actually sent for him. Whereas, what he had sent for was two hundred dollars; and the request had come not to him, Clinton, but to Ralph. On this occasion the old man had said he wanted Berry-berry to deal with his predicament without any assistance from him. Since the Covington, Kentucky, episode, there had been half a dozen of these urgent requests in eighteen months: twice he had asked for money to get out of jail, and the other pleas had been for relief from an assortment of crises: in Norfolk, Virginia, he had demolished someone’s car and was being held for damages; in San Pedro, California, he wanted to ship out with the Merchant Marine and needed money for seaman’s papers; apparently he had not shipped out after all, because the next S.O.S. had come from Biloxi, Mississippi, where he had smashed the window of a department store and caused considerable damage to its Christmas display. There had been no other communications from Berry-berry, only these messages of distress, and they never came twice from the same town. Clinton had kept a map, following in this way Berry-berry’s zigzag progress to Key Bonita.

Clinton had been working the late shift at the White Tower, taking over the job from Mevvin who had gone back to his heaven in Tennessee. Ralph Williams often walked over to the place in the evenings and sat with his son during the slack hour between eleven and midnight. Just three nights ago, as Ralph sidled up to the counter, he handed Clinton the telegram that had just been delivered to him from Key Bonita:

DEAR RALPH HAVE FINE OPPORTUNITY TO BUY INTO SHRIMPING BUSINESS. OWNER OF BOAT DESPERATE FOR CASH, WILL GIVE ME GENEROUS SHARE EXCHANGE FOR FUEL MONEY. WE MAKE FIVE-DAY TRIPS. PROFIT AVERAGES THOUSAND DOLLARS A TRIP. PLEASE RUSH TWO HUNDRED, WILL RETURN SAME IN TEN DAYS. LOVE.

BERRY-BERRY WILLIAMS
TIN POT ARMS HOTEL
KEY BONITA FLORIDA

Clinton read it four times. As his eye lingered on the address, he knew with a sudden and overwhelming certainty that he himself, within a very short time, would be standing in the lobby of the Tin Pot Arms Hotel. He had never before heard of the place, but its name was inexplicably familiar; it was as if it existed in his past rather than in his future. But he did not question it. His excitement was sharp and pleasurable and, in an effort to hide it from his father, he busied himself with wiping all the catsup dispensers.

“You gonna send the two hundred?” he asked.

“Listen, are you kiddin’?” Ralph rested his hands on the counter, entwined his fingers, twiddled his thumbs. “Give me a—what you got there, root beer? Give me a root beer. Listen, are you kiddin’?”

“I just wondered. Large or small?”

“Large.”

“‘Cause I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t,” Clinton said. “I just wondered. Where is Key Bonita anyway?” He placed a large glass of root beer on the counter.