“Stop looking at me like that,” Freddy said. “I get crazy when I tell that story. I’m better now, really, if I could just—if God would just have mercy on me and let me get a little sleep.” He laughed nervously. “So tell us about the robbery. Four of them, with gunfire. Was dey blood? Was dey niggazzh?”

“They were thugs,” Blaine said. “They just pumped a few shots into the ceiling, that’s all. Why do you denigrate them? You are over in Africa for three years, ostensibly saving African lives, dispensing care—”

Freddy flicked his hand at a fly. Blaine took note of the limp wrist action and the way Freddy crossed his legs. In spite of a lifelong fondness for Freddy, Blaine felt himself disapproving of his nephew’s whole demeanor.

“It’s just a term of speech, Uncle Willy. You yourself referred to them as ‘cocksuckers.’ Was this coin dealer insured?”

“I still don’t know,” Blaine said. “My lawyer’s handling it. It’s depressing. I am down to selling paintings and coins so I can fix up that courtyard. In the morning, I’m importing a fountain from Italy, before lunch I am robbed, and in the afternoon I’m shopping for a double-wide.”

“You’re such a kidder,” Freddy said. “Zona, did you hear that, babe? He’s getting a double-wide.”

“I’m serious,” Blaine said. “I’ve got some scrub acreage. I’ll plop it down there. Pow!” Blaine slapped his hand on the coffee table. “Home, sweet home. I’ll sit there and call it good.” He relit his pipe. “Where is Walter, for God’s sake? How is he?”

Zona gave Blaine a cup of coffee. “He’s up in the bedroom.”

“Won’t come out?” Blaine said.

“No,” Zona said. “I’ve been trying to baby him but…well, you know Walter. He’s the biggest and best manic depressive in the Golden State. When he’s up, fa-gam! The planet Krypton. He can fly there in an hour. But when he’s down, he’s really down. A major crash.”

Blaine’s face became a mask of concern. “He’s back on the lithium, isn’t he?”