She locked up her Datsun, then opened the back door of the Chrysler—a dented yellow Newport that Talbot had dubbed the Forehead during their senior year because of its long, wide hood—and climbed inside.

“This is J. Jason Winkle,” Talbot said in his game-show-host voice. “I’m calling him Lefty because I can’t say ‘Winkle’ without cracking up. We’re cousins by some marriage twice divorced or once annulled or something. His family just moved up from Boca, and he’s transferred to our very own Merritt Island High. Lefty, meet Karen.”

Winkle smiled and said, “Hey.”

“He’s still in high school?” Karen asked. He had the look of a seminary student, a young Baptist who planned to go out into the world and improve it.

“That he is,” Talbot said. “A senior facing the abyss. I thought we’d show him the ropes.” He tapped Winkle on the side of the head and wagged his thumb toward the backseat. “Karen, here, is one of the island’s most lovely creatures.”

“Right,” Karen said. “That’s me.”

One of the young man’s hands extended over the seat as if to shake Karen’s, but she didn’t take it. “So you graduated?” he asked her.

She looked at Talbot again. “Um, beer?”

“It’s right there between our good friend Lefty’s feet.” Talbot started the engine. “Lefty, imbibe the lady.”

Winkle bent forward, dug a beer out of the box, and passed it to Karen.

They drove a half-circle around the Datsun, then rolled across the bookstore parking lot and back onto Courtenay Parkway. “Ol’ Lefty here is interested in becoming one of the Midnight Ramblers,” Talbot said, adjusting the rearview mirror so that he could see Karen. “Lam’s against it, but I’m working on him. I’ve explained that it takes great amounts of public humiliation to become a Rambler, but Lefty still wants to do it. Don’t you, Lefty?”

“Yeah.” Winkle grinned and glanced back at her. “I guess.”

“There’s no ‘I guess’ about it. There is being a Rambler, and there is not being a Rambler. Ask Karen.”

Karen had her beer can against her lips. She finished her swig and grimaced. “Don’t ask me. I don’t know what happens in your stupid little club, and I can’t believe you haven’t dropped it by now.”

Talbot clucked his tongue. “Well, when is a good time to stop being a Rambler? No one’s quite figured that out yet.”

“I’ve always been a little out of the loop,” Karen said. “I assume it’s about penis size—like a club for little dicks.” She glanced at Winkle. “You may want to think twice about joining.”

Winkle looked down at his lap.

“Don’t mind Karen. She’s just jealous because of our men-only policy. But it’s not a matter of joining; you have to be approved for membership.”