Raf’s black Levi’s were half zipped. He was shirtless and barefoot, and he left damp tracks as he crossed the room to yank shut the draperies and close out the motel people, the parking lot, the elaborate shadow work of the giant palm tree.

He had mixed a drink for himself: four parts bourbon and one part tap water.

Now he leaned over the sinks at the dressing counter and took the drink. I saw his sinewy back arch as he fought to keep down the jolt.

He made it to the bed, where he dropped, looking stunned.

“So much for Doctor Jekyll,” Raymond said. “Here comes Hyde.”

“Jekyll put in a full day,” I said.

Raf asked, “You been having fun with my wife, Raymond?”

“We been screwin’ our brains out,” Raymond said.

“That’d be a short session,” said Raf.

“All we did was drive back here, hoss. To take you to supper with us.”

Raf snorted, full of hate for the idea. “Food’s a long way off,” he said.

I signed us on for another week at the Park Inn.

“What’s the story?” Raf said. “Why’d you re-up?”

“For you. I’m waiting for you,” I said.

“The fuck. You just don’t want to say goodbye to Raymond.”

He slept away the day, coming awake like a vampire, at sundown.

Night, we drove over to The Yellow Man. The club seemed safe and friendly. A step-up platform stage had been added for live entertainment—a reggae band. And for dancing, a stretch of floor was spotlighted and cleared of tables.

Raf switched over to drinking sweetsie cocktails made with fruit syrups and cream. “See if maybe my skin’ll quit crawling,” he said.

The sugar-liquor combo animated him, but gave him manic rage. After three drinks he left me alone at our table and sauntered over to dance with some spare woman. I heard him threaten to thrash a man who knocked into them. And I had a feeling Raf wouldn’t much mind getting thrashed.

At six or so, I swam in the Park Inn’s lighted pool. The water was lukewarm. I pedaled on my back, stirring up a gleaming white wake, and watched dawn change the face of the sky. I saw morning birds.

There were no calls, no messages at the desk from Raymond.

Until noon, I lay taking sun on one of the webbed lounge chairs that crowded the patio. Noon brought the real factory heat.

Toward dark, I was waiting alone in the Firecat on a dead street in the Third Ward. Raf had gone inside one of these houses to see a doctor—“like a doctor,” he had said, rather—about drying out.

“I’m sick of drinking,” he had said.

“And sick from it,” I had added.

“Don’t help me, Paige, it hurts,” he had said.