“I’m currently holding you as a material witness to your own stupidity,” Culpepper told me in what was quickly becoming my permanent digs on Treasure Island, the interview room at police headquarters in the Administration Building. “Stu Webster, that’s the fellow you had the fight with, he’s not going to press charges against you. You can thank my friend Russ Hewett for that. He has a lot of sway on the island. But Maria Elisea may file a complaint. Here, hold this against that big bruise.” He tossed me an orange Popsicle Twin bar, still in its wrapper.

“Thanks. Who’s Maria Elisea?” I said.

“The blond receptionist at the desk downstairs. Russ Hewett and I were bringing her back an order of Chicken in the Rough from the Estonian Village when we saw the commotion. I save your skin, Russ finds your wallet where it fell from your pocket, Stu starts to say it’s his, I have a second exchange with Stu about that, I take you here while Russ tries to convince Stu not to press charges against you, and in all the confusion . . . we lost Maria’s Chicken in the Rough. Here’s your wallet, by the way—Russ just came by with it. I understand you had dinner with him last night. Small world.”

I pocketed the wallet. “Thank him for me, will you?”

“You can thank him yourself. He’s giving you a ride back to your hotel. Meanwhile, madame, your makeup artiste has arrived.”

I’d called Nancy at the Nude Ranch and asked her to come over with a full theatrical makeup kit. I wasn’t going to be able to take the bandstand at the Claremont with my face in its current condition. My only hope, unless Culpepper’s Popsicle had supernatural properties, was for someone who knew her way around stage makeup to ply her craft on my face. The only one who was immediately available on the island, had access to such makeup, and whose help I knew I could bank upon was Nancy.

“She’s here already?”

Culpepper nodded toward the hall. “I’ve been with her out there for ten minutes. Wanted to get some background on you.”

He stared at me for a second, and I realized why he was being so helpful to a man who’d started a brawl at his beloved fair.

“Sorry about your daughter, Ray,” he said.

I nodded. “Thanks.”

“Can I ask how old she was?”

“She was eight, Bob.”