In all, eight prostitutes discovered in a marsh behind a notorious motel in a derelict neighborhood of Atlantic City.

Are you certain, Juliana? My husband—Irving—did not? Ever?

Pleading with Juliana Say yes! Tell me.

Pleading with Juliana Say no! Spare me.

Juliana repeated the words she’d rehearsed. Stammering out of what might be interpreted as embarrassment, avoiding the woman’s angry, blood-veined eyes. No, Mrs. Hermann.

But Mrs. Hermann persisted: Did you see him with other women? Don’t lie, don’t you dare lie to me.

Finally, beginning to be nasty—Did he pay you off? Did you take money from him? Do you think I’m a fool? You—and him …

Soon after this, the summer ended for Juliana. Three weeks before Labor Day.

Mrs. Hermann gave notice to Juliana: her employment was ended, she would receive one more week’s salary, that was all. Her transportation home would be provided.

No, Mrs. Hermann said, waving her beringed hands, no no. There was nothing to discuss.

Juliana was disappointed, wounded. Her wonderful job on Harbor Island!

True, she’d disliked the job. She’d disliked the people. (Except for the little girl, but there were times when she disliked the girl, too.) She’d loved Harbor Island, though.

The Sand Bar. Absolutely, red-flashing neon in the windows of The Sand Bar.

She was losing about half her salary, but she’d gained a (secret) sum from Irving Hermann, of which Mrs. Hermann could not know.

So quickly everything was ending!—what to tell her friends? Her mother?

The beautiful summerhouse was being shut up. Weeks ahead of time. The children were dismayed, unhappy. Grimly Mrs. Hermann spoke on the phone about putting the house on the market, not to rent but to sell. She never wanted to return to Harbor Island. She and the children were returning to Philadelphia at once, she’d hired one of the young men to drive them.

Seeing Juliana standing uncertainly, Mrs. Hermann might say—Oh, you! Are you still here?

Packing her things in the cramped little maid’s room that overlooked the canal. Trying not to cry, rubbing her neck. By now, no bruises remained.

Close up, the canal was less beautiful than she liked to recall, oil spills marred the rippling surface, droppings of gulls were everywhere on the boardwalk, but Juliana would long remember the slapping of waves at the wide beach at Harbor Island, the sky at the eastern horizon lightning at dawn, that foolish tremor of hope in the heart at the sight of the red neon sign—THE SAND BAR.

So quickly Harbor Island had ended, and what had it meant?

4.

MONEY BAR in flashing red neon. In fact the name was Monkey Bar, but the k had burned out.

Here too were tropical drinks, gaily colored cocktails with little fluted umbrellas, cinnamon sticks, lime slices, grapefruit. Gin, vodka. Tequila, she’d never tasted before. Licking her lips, waiting for the rush she knew would be coming.