“Raymond’s married, and I’m married,” I said. “And besides, he and Raf are best friends.”

“Since when?” Pru said. She hitched up the skirt of her satin mini and straightened her garter-belt straps.

“Since when which?”

“Any of it,” Pru said, rehooking her nylons.

On my cheek a black mothlike thing batted with each blink—the fake lash.

I found Raf explaining the sculptor’s work to the sculptor.

The artist’s hairpiece seemed askew, as if Raf’s tirade had blown the thing sideways.

“How’re we doing?” I asked Raf.

“I must go,” the sculptor said. He touched Raf’s wrist. “Keep thinking.”

We nudged through the clusters of art patrons, who were sun-darkened and perfumed and whose gleaming jewelry struck sparks.

We caught up with Raymond. He and a man in a fringed suede coat were talking outdoor lore.

“I’m in a fifteen-foot boat out on Alligator Bayou with Ole Mossy. Dusk,” Raymond said. “He tells me we’re steering by the cypress shapes—they’re just these black formations but Mossy’s got ’em all memorized. It smells like snake and all we can make out is egrets.”

“You see ’em even if there’s no moon,” said the man in the suede coat.

“Aren’t they white? And I’m saying, ‘Mossy, maybe we could hang it up at this point?’ ”

“Mossy never wants to go home, though.”

“No, and the bugs are having a smorgasbord,” Raymond said.

“They don’t bite him,” said the man in suede.

“That’s right, they never bite him. Hello, Paige,” Raymond said. “We’re just trading stories about Ole Mossy.”

Raf said, “I lost all my money on him once in the Preak-ness. He sprained a fetlock or something and had to be put down.”

“This is Paige Deveaux,” Raymond said. “And the funny one’s Raf, her husband.”

“He looks funny,” said the man in suede.

“Call me Deadeye,” Raf said.

“I’m Danny Hail and that’s my son. He don’t talk.” The man in suede thumbed toward a fellow with sorrowful eyes, a tight smile. “That’s Paul, but he don’t talk.”

“Pleasure to meet you both,” I said.

Raymond said, “Ole Mossy’s a Cajun, got a hunting lease on some land over in Louisiana? The hunting lease, just about. He’s perfect for a guide but once he’s started he won’t stop.”

“He’ll say to you something like ‘Thought you wanted to hunt,’ ” said the man in suede.

“Yeah, that Ole Mossy,” Raf said. “He mows down some wildlife and strayed domestic pets and eats a mess of crayfish and drinks from his radiator and finally ambles on back to his lean-to and curls up for the night with his pappy or his ma.”

“You know all about him,” the man in suede said.

Raymond said, “Raf’s from the enlightened North. Everything all right with Prudence?” he asked me.