“Drives my dad crazy,” the boy says, putting away his wallet. “Talk about faisandé. The man’s entire set of political beliefs—which are totally wrapped up in ZOG paranoia—went into overdrive on 9/11. He thinks al-Qaeda has infiltrated Greenpeace. He really believes that! If you’re liberal, you’re vulnerable, he says.”

“Explain ‘ZOG.’ ”

“The Zionist Occupation Government. The real government, if you listen to my dad. As in, even the White House answers to ZOG.”

“Oh, yes,” the little man says, as if recognizing a name he’d once heard. “I always forget I’m a ZOG-ist. My card is around here somewhere.” He taps the breast of his suit coat and winks at Karen. “And you, Ms.… ”

“Smith,” Karen lies.

“Ms. Smith,” the little man says. The hand that was pretending to search his coat touches the buttons of his shirt. “Landon Jessup. And I have no intention of asking your political affiliations; you’ve been so kind and silent. But, as the newly established proprietor of the Lutie Matanzas Hotel, I would like to offer you a drink.”

She no longer has any idea what her political beliefs are. She is, at best, selectively informed about the world, knows only what spills into the house through the one approved television channel and the commentary provided by her husband. The boy is looking at her with some kind of interest she can’t fathom. Mr. Jessup, who has been kind enough not to solicit a political statement from her, is smiling, waiting for her to respond to his offer. “Thank you,” she says, “but it’s just a club soda, and I’m fine.”

“Todd Gladbach.” The boy waves at the two of them. “Nice to meet you both. Lager?”

“Please, Hannah,” Mr. Jessup says, “give the boy another lager. We’ll assume if he’s old enough to vote Green, he’s old enough to drink. Is that Gladbach of the Maryland Gladbachs?”

“Yep,” Todd says.

“The Maryland drywall Gladbachs?”

“Right again.”

“Well, forgive me for asking, but what business do you have being critical of hotel renovators who utilize, among other materials, a substantial amount of drywall?”

“I hate the family business,” Todd says. “I hate it. It stands for everything that’s wrong with this country. Minimum wages, outsourcing, union-busting, a complete disregard for architectural aestheticism, not to mention what it’s doing to the environment, all in the name of lining people’s pockets.”

“Pockets like your father’s.”

“Exactly.”

“And have you stood firm on your political beliefs and renounced the family money?”

“I will,” Todd says, jumping on the question. “As soon as my book comes out. I have to finish my research, first, is all. I need travel money.”

“I had a hunch you weren’t local.”

“Nope.” He kicks at the backpack behind him with both heels as if he’s wearing spurs.