Tashi looked away as if she hadn’t noticed, walking faster toward the diner, as the men started their truck and pulled out in the opposite direction.

*   *   *

“Nobody’s looking at you,” Buster White said. “Nobody’s staring. Quit being so goddamn paranoid. Christ Almighty. Take your coat and tie off, Senator. I’ll get you a swimsuit. We can drink and smoke like we used to. You aren’t in front of the cameras. Come as you are to the party.”

“I’ll be in my room when you’re ready.”

Vardaman sat next to Buster White in White’s personal cabana, a little enclosure by the swimming pool that looked like something out of ancient Greece, with fancy Doric columns and a blue awning overhead. White had been out there all morning, big belly slathered in baby oil, with two cocktail waitresses lying beside him on their stomachs with their bikini tops untied, sleeping off hangovers. Sometimes Buster would toss a glass of ice water on their backs just to give the men at the pool a real show.

“Is that any better?” Buster White said. “Whether you have a room here or you’re by the pool, what’s the damn difference? At least here we are wide open and pretty much naked to the world. I sweep those rooms every damn day, but you better start to understand the Feds. Did you know they have goddamn cameras smaller than a chipmunk’s butthole?”

“Why didn’t you return my calls?”

“I hate phones.”

“What about my personal messages?”

“I don’t know those fucking people,” Buster said. “That goddamn frat boy Bentley? Shit. Listen. What do you want? A club sandwich and a Bloody Mary? You see the bartender over there? That girl with the amazing tatas? She makes the best damn Bloody Mary you’ll have outside New Orleans. Puts a whole salad in there, with pickles, olives, and peppers. Come on, now, put on a suit, oil up your old hide, and unwind. Tonight, we got Johnny Fucking Mathis playing. How do you like that? Chances are . . .”

“How was the funeral?” Vardaman said.

“Lovely,” Buster White said. “I paid a colored band a thousand dollars to play ‘When the Saints Go Marchin’ In.’ Ray’s wife just loved it, smiling and laughing, tears running down her face, all that joy and sorrow for a man who would’ve put his dick in a light socket.”

“I came to talk to you about that light socket.”