But even this deluge of mind destroyers did not give Warlock a full night’s sleep; he was up early and shaking, composing a list that would act as a drawstring of order. After an uneaten breakfast and the purchase of some stomach soothers he arranged to have the tan rental BMW painted gray by some merry Cubans at a bump shop on Ann Street. He bought a large valise of assorted used clothes, remembering J. Kirk Barefoot’s admonition not to use disguises unless you’re skillful. He got a close cropped Navy-style haircut and decided to grow a mustache. He bought a nearly indelible false tattoo at a novelty shop; a tattoo, a little smeared in application, that showed a cobra and panther poised for mortal combat. In a compact rental he drove to the Searstown Plaza for the first of ten sessions in a suntan parlor. He stopped barely short of a gold ring for his ear. He ate an extra large, starchy Cuban meal. He went to bed at eight in the evening (in a house trailer he had rented out on Stock Island) after watching a pleasantly distracting half hour of the Muppets.

He nearly slept through his next tanning appointment, though it proved especially boring without the excitement of coffee in his gullet. Somehow he had slept fourteen hours and Warlock felt the dull, chastened humility of the POW, which exactly fitted his new appearance. He was momentarily appalled by the stark weirdo in the tanning parlor mirror—the faded old clothes, and criminal mien—until he recognized himself. Had he gone too far, he wondered? But what was too far when you were saving your life? Why had the man at the desk at the tanning parlor called him “darling”? He reached Diana at the nurse’s lounge from a pay phone on A1A. Why had someone peed on the floor of the phone booth?

“Johnny. How are you, lover? Getting any sun?”

“A little. It’s been tough down here but I’m doing real well.”

“Nothing dangerous? Promise me you won’t do anything silly and dangerous.”

“I promise, baby.” His tear ducts swelled with a mad urge to spill the beans about his current peril.

“Our first newsletter came out. It’s fabulous. Can I send it or will you be home pretty soon?”

“I’m in Sarasota right now.” Perhaps Fardello was tapping his home phone, he thought quickly. “There’s a chance you might have to come down for Christmas. I’m real busy.”

“Gee, I don’t know. I promised Mom. We’ll see. I got to run to surgery. I miss you. You’re supposed to call Rabun, Feingold, and your dad. Your dad is quite the flirt on the phone. And Garth called with the usual filth but he said he had talked to you.”