He waited a moment regaining composure, standing as if crucified: arms floating either side of him in the chest-high water, hands limp on their wrists. Then he moved to the edge of the pool and hauled himself up onto the concrete lip and stood as they’d stood before, looking at the water. Nothing had changed, except now there was a body suspended just below the surface. He looked at the house. No one in the kitchen. Lou was probably still on the bed. On the living-room TV, another Sopranos episode was starting—Tony driving through that highway tollbooth. Maybe Sly was doing the same thing, going through the pearly gates.

The palm fronds were clacking gently and the air was growing cool with the evening. He undressed and placed his clothes in a neat pile on his boots and stood naked and dripping. He didn’t want to walk pool water through the house. Hard to claim Sly slipped and broke his neck if there was evidence of someone else in the water.

He gave it ten minutes, and then wiped his feet on the mat and went inside. Lou was still in Junior’s room, on the bed with his eyes shut, arm across his brow. He couldn’t have seen what happened, or he wouldn’t be taking it so easy. There was a glass on the nightstand, and an empty foil pack of painkillers. The dog hadn’t moved either. It looked up at him from under its brow again, jaw still on the carpet.

Andre said, ‘What’s happening?’

‘Nothing. I still feel like shit.’

He had dry clothes in the car, but there was a certain thrill standing here in his birthday suit. If the man opened his eyes, he’d have to strangle him. Everything came down to the motion of eyelids. He was on a razor’s edge, and it felt good.

He said, ‘I’ll get you a drink.’

‘I think I need a doctor.’

He thought that over for a moment. He turned slightly, and through the hallway window he saw Sly in the swimming pool. The cigar was bobbing three feet away. He said, ‘All right. I’ll call someone.’