Warlock felt soiled. Just a half a dozen hours ago he had been in the arms and legs of Laura, now he was sitting submerged in loud punk rock, his jawbones clenched with cocaine. But he knew it was part of the job. He had busted one case, maybe two: a paralyzed lover and a full motel, and in a short time he had weaseled his way into Mrs. Rabun’s charmed circle of wastrels. She was admittedly regal; she somehow looked built for spending money. The cowboy artist lurched toward the toilet with his hands covering his mouth, blasting socialites and nits out of his path. Gloria summoned Warlock to her side with an imperious little pat.

“Are you a spy sent down from Traverse City by my husband?” She was smiling.

“Am I a what?” His brain spun, clutching for resources.

“Don’t be silly, just truthful. My husband, Gerald, sends people down here to keep an eye on me. I usually sleep with them and send them back.”

“It would be nice to sleep with you but I’m afraid I don’t know your husband. Is that the first step?”

“Maybe not. And maybe you’re a little too sharp for Gerald. Please excuse me.”

“Not at all. I won’t excuse you unless I can see you again. Let’s say I’m a man on the run from a bad marriage and possible embezzlement charges. Should I face all the bad music or hightail it down to old Brazil? You tell me. Meanwhile I’m going to blow this fucking chichi pop stand.” He gave her an unnecessarily familiar kiss just as the cowboy returned. Warlock was grabbed rudely by the arm. “Just leaving.” He stood and waved the man to his chair which he removed at the last possible moment. He exited to a crash and screams.

At the Brazilian Court there was an envelope under the door. He waited to open it until in bed in order to savor even more intrigue. Then he remembered how hotels send up an accounting sheet of room services and tossed it aside.