Indiana said, “Hypochondriac. Right. She’s got lower G.I. pain. Diarrhea. Gas. The thing is—she’s switched from Jell-O pudding to Royal pudding.”

“Doctor, what can I take?” Chicago sang.

“I said, ‘Delilah, remember how you—Delilah, I don’t think you have a ruptured appendix. Delilah! Remember when you switched from RC Cola to Pepsi?’ ”

“Doctor—to relieve this bellyache,” Chicago sang.

“I said, ‘Put the lime in the coconut. Yeah, it does sound kind of nutty. That’s good. Now, haven’t you got a lime? You’ve got lime juice. One of those little green plastic lime things? Okay, that’s good, now listen closely—You put de lime in de coconut an’ shake it all up; put de lime in de coconut and you drink it all down. Trust me, Delilah, an’ call me in de morning.’ ”

“And she never called back,” Hartman said soberly. “Very clever.”

“Let me get this straight,” Koestler said. “You put de lime in de coconut?”

“Yeahrrr,” said Hartman. “Jolly good.”

“It’s not bad, but that’s his only routine,” Chicago said. “I’ve spent seventy-two hours with the man, and that’s it. That’s his one trick. Plus, he’s a fuckin’ Cubs fan.”

“Hey,” Indiana said. “Long live Ernie Banks! Speaking of weird, we brought in three cases of sardines,” Indiana said. “What’s with all the sardines?”

“They are an essential out in the bush,” Koestler said, removing a can of King Oscar sardines from his pocket and shucking the red cellophane wrapping. “Look at that, a peel-back can. No more bloody key. It’s about time.”

Hartman said, “They’ve only been canning sardines for ninety years.”

Koestler jerked the lid back and helped himself to a half-dozen fish, his fingers dripping with oil. “Why, Jules, don’t take personal offense. I’m sure His Majesty has enough on his mind without worrying about zip-open cans.” Koestler offered the tin around, and when everyone refused, he gave the rest of the fish to Babbitt. “King Oscar sardines are worth more than Marlboro cigarettes in Africa,” he declared.

“King Oscar, the nonpareil sardine,” Chicago said.

Indiana filled his bourbon glass with Coke, Canadian Mist, and a handful of ice cubes, which melted almost instantly.

Hartman fixed his hard stare on young Indiana. “What exactly brought you to Africa, sonny boy?”

“I came to serve humanity, and already I’m filled with a sense of the inexplicable. I can’t believe I’m in Africa. And fuck you very much.”

“Speak up. You sound like a bloody poof—‘I came to serve humanity,’ ” Hartman said.

“And you sound like a major asshole. Why don’t you try a little anger-management training?”

“Bloody poof, I knew it. Nancy girl!”

“Fuck!” Indiana said. “You’re drunk. I’m not even talking to you.”

“Won’t last a week. Mark my words,” Hartman said.

“Tomorrow you will believe,” Koestler said. “The leper colony.”