‘I guess this means Ramona Cortes will get what she’s always wanted,’ Cab went on. ‘With you out, it’s a two-person race for governor. She’s ahead in the polls. Everyone says she’s going to win.’

‘That’s what they say,’ Diane agreed. He saw a peculiar smile flit across her lips.

‘You don’t think so?’ Cab asked.

Diane went back to her tea, even though it was cold now. ‘I think the election is still four months away,’ she said. ‘Anything can happen.’

*

Walter Fleming nursed his Budweiser, which he drank from a long-necked bottle. The union boss had half a dozen more bottles soaking in ice in a silver bucket beside his deck chair. The blistering noon sun turned his high forehead pink. He wore an ugly yellow-striped bathing suit that he’d owned for years. His flip-flops lay in the sand at his feet. He wore black Ray-Bans that looked a lot like the sunglasses his father wore in the 1950s. Everything old was new again.

He sat in the sand behind his retirement home, which was near Carrabelle on the panhandle. The ground was flat, and the water hardly moved. A few teenagers splashed in the water, but this place was too boring for most of the kids. He spent weekends here with his wife. She lived in the house permanently, while Walter spent his weekdays in Tallahassee and in union halls around the state.

It was Monday, but he didn’t feel like working. He was in a foul mood. His mood didn’t get better when he saw Ogden Bush strolling toward him from the deck of his house. Ogden wore a dress suit and a fedora, which made him stand out like a politician shaking hands at a state fair. His black skin glowed with sweat, but he sported a cool grin, which nothing ever erased. He had a tan envelope scrunched in one of his slim hands.

Bush took off his hat and wiped his bald head. He stood on the beach, admiring the girls in the surf. ‘Aren’t you worried about skin cancer, Walter?’

‘You’re the only mole that bothers me, Ogden,’ Walter replied.

Bush chuckled. ‘Funny. That’s funny.’

Walter took a swig of beer and wiped his beard with his sweaty forearm. Beside him, Bush settled into an empty chair. Without being asked, the political spy grabbed one of Walter’s beers from the icy bucket, twisted off the cap, and drank half of it in a single swallow.

‘Quiet around here,’ Bush said. ‘You really want to retire in this place? It would drive me crazy.’

‘I like quiet. I don’t get much of it.’

Both men finished their beers in silence. Walter flicked at a bee that buzzed around his head. His lips drooped downward in a perpetual frown.

‘You look like Grumpy Cat, Walter,’ Bush told him. ‘What’s with the gloom and doom?’