“Not necessary. I’ll frame it myself. I’ll pick it up after lunch and the beach.” There was a dangerous quasislur between “lunch” and “beach.” He liked the idea of this woman using the word “captious.”

“Are you an artist?” She was amused at his evident goofiness.

“I used to be a portraitist.”

“I loathe portraitists. They’re lying shits.” She was vehement.

“That’s why I quit. Then I went on the trail of the great Gauguin.” They were interrupted by a gay blade, an obvious friend of Mrs. Rabun’s.

“He bought the Hockney,” she said.

“Oh not the Hockney. Not the Hockney. The Hockney. I loved it. Not the Hockney. How could you, you bastard. Not the Hockney.”

Chapter 35

The real trouble with walking a long ways is that you usually have to walk back. But the beach was resplendent with a warm, moist wind from the south; and nearly unoccupied, which was a puzzle. Since these rich people were so close to the ocean, they no doubt all had pools to show they didn’t need the ocean. Warlock was still a trifle stoned and felt a special kinship with the sea; probably, he thought, because Dad and my uncles were all Navy men in World War II. To be sure, that ocean, the Pacific, lay well to the west but they supposedly merged in the Panama Canal, and south of South America and north of North America. That was the problem with dope: everything came together for a short while, but then it fell apart again. Dad always advised him to get “high on life” but then Dad was quite a drinker. Dad had also said that “the hobo is a sunshine millionaire.”