The weather report was for clear and sunny, southwest winds five to ten knots. Well, Brody thought, maybe that’s for the best. If we have a good weekend and nobody gets hurt, maybe I can believe. And Hooper’s sure to leave.

Brody had said he would call Hooper as soon as he talked to the Coast Guard. He was standing at the kitchen phone. Ellen was washing the supper dishes. Brody knew Hooper was staying at the Abelard Arms. He saw the phone book buried beneath a pile of bills, note pads, and comic books on the kitchen counter. He started to reach for it, then stopped. “I have to call Hooper,” he said. “You know where the phone book is?”

“It’s six-five-four-three,” said Ellen.

“What is?”

“The Abelard. That’s the number: six-five-four-three.”

“How do you know?”

“I have a memory for phone numbers. You know that. I always have.”

He did know it, and he cursed himself for playing stupid tricks. He dialed the number.

“Abelard Arms.” It was a male voice, young. The night clerk.

“Matt Hooper’s room, please.”

“You don’t happen to know the room number, sir?”

“No.” Brody cupped his hand over the mouthpiece and said to Ellen, “You don’t happen to know the room number, do you?”

She looked at him, and for a second she didn’t answer. Then she shook her head.

The clerk said, “Here it is. Four-oh-five.”

The phone rang twice before Hooper answered.

“This is Brody.”

“Yeah. Hi.”

Brody faced the wall, trying to imagine what the room looked like. He conjured visions of a small dark garret, a rumpled bed, stains on the sheets, the smells of rut. He felt, briefly, that he was going out of his mind. “I guess we’re on for tomorrow,” he said. “The weather report is good.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Then I’ll see you down at the dock.”

“What time?”

“Nine-thirty, I guess. Nobody’s going to go swimming before then.”

“Okay. Nine-thirty.”

“Fine. Oh hey, by the way,” Brody said, “how did things work out with Daisy Wicker?”

“What?”

Brody wished he hadn’t asked the question. “Nothing. I was just curious. You know, about whether you two hit it off.”

“Well … yeah, now that you mention it. Is that part of your job, to check on people’s sex lives?”

“Forget it. Forget I ever mentioned it.” He hung up the phone. Liar, he thought. What the hell is going on here? He turned to Ellen. “I meant to ask you, Martin said something about a beach picnic. When’s that?”

“No special time,” she said. “It was just a thought.”

“Oh.” He looked at her, but she didn’t return the glance. “I think it’s time you got some sleep.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You haven’t been feeling well. And that’s the second time you’ve washed that glass.” He took a beer from the refrigerator. He yanked the metal tab and it broke off in his hand. “Fuck!” he said, and he threw the full can into the wastebasket and marched out of the room.