‘Whoa. Man.’ Hoarse and a little squeaky. He pointed at the house, over toward the bedrooms, clicked his fingers. ‘What’s dumbass up to?’ Trying to seem composed.

Andre said, ‘KO’d on painkillers.’

Sly held the cigar up close and turned it back and forth, like maybe it was faulty. He put it to his lips but didn’t take a drag—just sort of kissed the end, and then let it hang at his side. He tapped some ash off with his finger—grey flakes drifting and then settling on the water. ‘You seen the news? Lamar got drilled.’

‘Yeah, I heard.’

Sly looked away, spoke in a whisper. ‘I don’t … this is going to come down hard.’

Andre didn’t answer. He figured it was best to let the man lay out all his worries, and then get in there with a counter-story if he had to.

Sly said, ‘I got back after golf and—how long you been here, anyway?’

‘Don’t know. Hour, maybe.’

‘Right, well … I come back after golf and there’s a fucking …’ Trying to stir up the word with the cigar. ‘There’s a cop car out at the road, waiting for me. The guy says, he goes to me: Can he come in, ask some questions? I said to him, Pal, not a fucking chance. Next thing I know, this unmarked pulls up, this detective’s right in my face—’ holding his palm up now to show the distance ‘—asking me all this shit about Lamar, basically saying did I have something to do with it. You know, pretending to be all polite about it like they do, Jesus Christ. Then, of course, they wanted me to go downtown …’

Andre went over and stood beside him, turned his bottom lip out, trying to look sympathetic. He said, ‘Did they give you one on the nose?’

‘Huh?’ And then remembered, touched his face gingerly. ‘Nah, I just … sometimes I just get a bleeder.’

Yeah, definitely something there, but he could ask him about it again, work around to it.

Andre said, ‘So what’d you tell them?’

Sly touched the cigar to his lips, but he wasn’t brave enough yet to take a deep pull. He said, ‘Nothing. I said I got nothing to do with it. But, ah …’ Shaking his head now, digging a thumbnail in the corner of his eye, struggling with the topic already. ‘The fucking … Lamar’s driver told them about what happened this morning, so of course they got a real hard-on for me. But I just said to them what I said to the driver: Why would I have him clipped if I was after him for two million bucks? And in fact, you know, why would I chase him for two if I knew I could get even more?’

The driver. Lamar’s guy—the surfer. But hold on …

Andre said, ‘When did you say that to the driver?’