Warlock drove away from the motel with the strident sense of having regained the world at large, a world where men acted instead of mulled, where men talked out loud and the colors of life were primary rather than muted and adumbrated; Dad’s wonderful quote slipped into memory, the one where the admiral stood on the foredeck after a long hideous battle in the South Pacific, and spoke to his men: “Once and for all, men, we have belled the Nipponese cat.” Now there was a basso, electrical pressure in his body—the protein rush from the barbecue was kicking in. Let the world have its puny mousse, its lighthearted quiches—there was an undeniable power in ribs and hamhocks. So much had happened since the dream, now five months back, that he seriously wondered if some secret power had been given him that summer solstice night in the forest. Had that knoll been the burial ground of ancient warriors and had his sleeping body osmotically sucked up their forgotten powers? Something definitely had happened. He had rid himself miraculously of the usual Protestant binge toward reducing one’s spirits to the point that no life surprises are possible. There was a sudden image of climbing a tree outside of Laura’s house and jumping like a giant flying squirrel from the tree through her open balcony window. At first light—after a night of love, he would somehow whisk her away to Michigan, where after successful surgery, Diana would nurse Laura back to health. The three of them would live happily in the old farmhouse. A queen or king sized bed would be in order. Think of them on a summer morn, cuddling in ignorant sleep while he dressed for some sort of manly work. The image made him gulp air in a hyperventilating frenzy. He put the BMW 3201 through its paces, having no idea where he was, though the probability of Florida loomed strong. Bright lights, and a siren. His brothers in the cloth, the police.

“Jesus, I’ve been tailing this guy all the way from Minnesota.” Warlock handed over his license and a number of hokum ID cards Dad had rigged for him.

“Geez, I didn’t see anyone else.” The patrolman was young and impressionable.

“You know better than to say that. I get too close and I’m burned. A month’s effort out the fucking window.” Warlock grew convinced of his despair.

“Sorry I screwed you up. Anything I can do to help?”

“The guy’s a rich, left-wing gay out of Minneapolis. He’s at the Breakers so I can pick him out tomorrow unless he skips.”

“The Cockatoo.” The patrolman was truly sorry, but this big deal had broken the boredom.

“The what?”

“Cockatoo. Mostly rich, mostly gay. After hours. Your only shot. I’ll lead.” The officer had transparently been overexposed to Joe Friday and Ben in his youth. Ben was now in the cold, cold ground.