“I’m a professional. I wasn’t mad at the black for screwing a beautiful blonde who put him up to it. If I had been the husband I might have gotten away with murder legally. And the guy was a great ballplayer. Don’t forget the Detroit Lions need all the help they can get.”

“I sure would like to see those pictures,” said a young dockhand. “They can’t swim good because of their muscles.”

“I had one up on the wall of my den but my wife made me take it down.” Warlock felt a bit henpecked after adding that detail. Hadn’t he burned all of his pornography? Why couldn’t he keep this imaginary photo in the imaginary den decorated with shelves of imaginary crime classics, awards, photos, the imaginary paraphernalia of his dark profession?

A little later he went to the cocktail lounge with Bib, and they planned his birthday boat trip. Then he remembered the name Feingold from the story and excused himself for a call.

“Look, the doctor is trying to make contact. Gloria Rabun sent an abusive letter saying that at least his latest spy was charming.”

“It’s a red herring. She’s fishing. I’ve convinced her otherwise. In fact, we’re nearly intimate. Relay that message because I don’t have time for simpleminded phone calls. I have reason to suspect I’m being followed by the Mafia.”

“Jesus! Be careful. You’re not having delusions, are you?”

“Do you call a machete wound on the shoulder a delusion?”

“I guess not. Are you getting much?”

“Too much. I put it on the shelf every few days to let it heal. Even a dick needs a vacation.”

“You lucky dog,” Feingold sighed.

The birthday boat trip turned out to be more than a little frightening. The morning weather was calm and exhilarating but Bib’s notion of the proper speed was full throttle on his overpowered skiff. They traveled some forty miles west, out past the Marquesas, where they watched a large tug combing the bottom for buried treasure. A breeze picked up from the northeast and they jumped their lunch hour ahead from noon to ten. They went through a half case of beer and a twenty piece bucket of commercially fried chicken Bib had bought the evening before. Mashed potatoes and gravy accompanied the bucket but they were cold and congealed from a night in the refrigerator.