“You’re lucky. I’m a Jew and I’ve never been past second base with one. That’s bare tit. The girls my age got standards. An engagement ring turns the trick. The young ones are different, but youth is messy.”

“Keep your pecker up. I’ll call.” Warlock had slapped him on the shoulder and got on the plane.

Despite all of this braggadocio there were certain problems, Warlock admitted. Taking off and landing are the dangerous times, and high over Georgia was the period to at least entertain the idea of difficulties. He hadn’t been able to make reservations for the plane, accommodations, and special car rental. In desperation he had turned to Rabun’s snazzy travel agent in New York. However distantly, this seemed to break cover. After two days of wonderful lovemaking—his slimmer tummy made for better contact, he noted—even Diana appeared to be jolly about sending him off. Bright girl that she was, it was her idea that he take the old beret along as a possible cover as an artist. She gave him guidebooks on shorebirds and Florida restaurants. He extracted a late night promise that should she become a doctor, that wouldn’t obviate the erotic use of nurse’s uniforms and garter belts. But primary among his worries was Rabun himself: as Warlock became more and more successful, Rabun became more greedy and demanding. There was a last minute meeting on the way to the dawn plane at the Traverse City airport, and Diana hadn’t been sufficiently out of earshot. Now, with the aid of several rum drinks Warlock’s mind was a whirl of details about motels, the spa, the marina, Rabun’s wife and son. And a phone call to Dad for hot tips had left an eerie knot in his stomach. Dad was vehemently dire and gave his son a group of phone numbers of powerful compatriots in Florida law enforcement. Now as the pilot announced their passage over invisible Jacksonville, Dad’s words drove into his brain with the rhetorical power of John L. Lewis.

“Jesus, how the fuck you get yourself in these jams? Don’t, I repeat, don’t go to Florida. It’s chocked full of detritus.”

“I have to go, Dad. It’s a commit.” Detritus was an odd word for Dad to use.

“The place is full of murdering crooks, Cubans and Colombians wholesaling drugs with millions to spend. Your life isn’t worth a plugged nickel down there. Why don’t you get a job on construction and stick with your beautiful wife?”

“Construction wouldn’t pay me the forty-five grand plus commission I get now,” Warlock said proudly.