Suspicious, Porfirio said, "What for you want to know my name?"

"So that I can call you something other than 'my man. I myself am Preston Fareweather."

"No shit."

"None. And you are…?"

Shrug. "Porfirio."

"Porfirio," Preston said, "those people back there are in the employ of my ex-wives. They mean me nothing but ill."

"Ex-wives, huh?" Full smirk now. "You got a lot of them?"

"The way this swamp has mosquitoes," Preston said, slapping at one on his forearm. "The result of their depradations—"

"Their wha?"

"Their attacks upon me, Porfirio. The result of those is that I am here with nothing but my bathing suit and my watch and your welcome person."

"Oh, yeah?"

"You are not a murderer, Porfirio," Preston told him, "nor are you a violent person."

"Oh, you think so, huh?"

"I do," Preston said. "I think you might consider assaulting me to take this watch, but then you would consider the fact that you are not a murderer and that after the theft I would still be alive and could identify you."

"You gotta find me first."

"How difficult would that be, Porfirio? If I put out a reward, how many of your fellow fishermen back there know you and could find you for the police and would be happy to do so?"

"You talk pretty big," Porfirio said, blustering now, "for somebody sitting there naked in a little teeny bathing suit."

"I am big, Porfirio," Preston said, using the man's name constantly both to belittle him and to remind him that Preston did know his name. "And I am big enough," he went on, "to wish to thank you for your aid back there and to offer the reward to you."

"That watch."

"I think not. But something very nice just the same. Substantial."

They had reached Porfirio's wide spot, a sort of inland salt pond. It reeked a bit, and salt didn't seem to deter mosquitoes, but Porfirio stopped anyway and said, "You makin me an offer?"

"I am."

"Then go ahead and make it."

"You will help me," Preston said. "I need to be gotten out of this swamp before I am eaten alive. I need to be hidden until after dark. And then I need to be transported to a place of safety where I may regroup."

"You got a lotta needs for a naked fat man in a little teeny bathing suit."

"I shall not be asking you to clothe me, Porfirio," Preston said, "though it is possible, eventually, I may ask you to feed me. But at the moment, my need is merely to remove myself from this swamp."

"It ain't bad here," Porfirio said. "I seen worse."

"I am sorry to hear that. Porfirio, why are we just sitting here in this brackish water?"

"I'm tryin to decide what to do about you."

"If you wish me to leave you now," Preston said, "I can only accede to your decision. I take it I should swim in that direction until I find a road or habitations or some such."

Snorting, Porfirio said, "You ain't gonna swim nowhere."

"Why not? I swam to you, if you recall."

Porfirio said, "Just wait a damn minute, Preskill, Presley — wha'd you say your damn name was?"

"Preston."

"Where'd you get a name like that?"

"From my mother. It's a family name, the Prestons go back to the Mayflower." That last detail was a lie, but he felt it important to establish the gulf of class between them, the better to keep Porfirio under control.

It seemed to work, which is to say, Porfirio tried very hard not to look impressed. "Mayflower. What's that supposed to be?"

"Just a boat. A bit larger than this one. Porfirio, are you going to assist me or shall I swim?"

"Let me think a minute," Porfirio said. "My pickup's back where we come from. So what I think, we go back partway, there's a trail back there, I'll tie the boat up, walk back the rest of the way, see is those fellas still there, figure out how to get you and the pickup together. Is that okay with you?"

"It sounds like a fine plan," Preston told him.

So Porfirio ran the boat in a little half circle and took them back most of the way to the cove where they'd started. Then he steered the boat leftward and ran it up onto the sandy ground and said, "I'll be back as quick as I can."

Preston was sorry to see the man take the outboard motor's ignition key. He scrinched over to the side so Porfirio could climb past him to the prow and over onto the land, where he tied the boat's rope to a root and said, "Just keep low," and walked away.

Preston knew what was going on in Porfirio's mind, of course. The fellow would look for the trio from the limo to find out if he could make a better deal by turning Preston over to them. If only he'd left the key, Preston would steal the boat and get himself well away from here.

As it was, with the combination of treachery in the air and many mosquitoes also in the air, what he did was go over the side and swim away upstream, away from the bridge and the cove. The water was barely chest-deep, but he could make better progress swimming than walking.

When he'd made it around a curve and out of sight of the boat, he found a spot where greenery hung down low over the bank, and the bottom fell away gradually, so that he could He mainly in water, with only his head out, resting back on what he preferred to think of as mulch. When too many mosquitoes found his head worth a detour, he covered it with mud, and that was better. And so, completely unexpectedly, he fell asleep.

"Prescott! Damn it, Prescott! Where the hell you at?"

Preston awoke, startled, floundering, swallowing salt water. Dried mud itched his head, and many branches scratched him as he jolted upward, crying, "Ow! Ow! Oof!"

"Prescott? That you?"

It was pitch black. He was seated on mud, up to his armpits in tepid water. Memory returned, and the voice became identifiable.

"Porfirio! I'm here!"

"And where the hell is that?"

"Don't you have a light? Can't you follow my voice?"

And then, preceded by the putt-putt of the outboard motor, here came a darker darkness out of the dark, and Porfirio's voice much closer, saying, "Prescott, that you down there?"

"It's Preston. Yes. Wait, let me stand. No, I need to hold on to the boat. Yes, all right, where is it? Can't you hold this boat still?"

"Get in the damn boat, Prescott."

Preston did manage to get into the boat, not gracefully, and Porfirio drove them away from there. Preston tried to see but couldn't. He itched all over. He said, "Where are we going?"

"To my vee-hicle. We'll talk when we get there. You shut up now. And get down."

Once again the bridge gave him a welcoming slap, and then they were back out in the cove, where there was nobody any more — no fishermen, no limo, and no cigarette boat. Porfirio sped them across the cove and around the point of land, and down the other side were a few dim lights, red and green and white, where they came upon a teetering old wooden pier with many boats like Porfirio's chained along its length.

Porfirio seemed to have his own slot, which he headed straight for, then eased in, the prow bumping the pier as he said, "Hold on to that there. Can you climb up on it? You see the rope, down there by your foot? Take the end of the rope up with you."

Preston did all that, and thought for one second of legging it away down the pier, illuminated enough by these dim lights so he probably wouldn't kill himself. But why? If he had a Sancho Panza, why not hold on to him?

So Preston held on to the rope, and Porfirio shut off his motor, climbed out, chained his boat like the others, and said, "My vee-hicle's down this way." Apparently, that was going to be his joke from now on.

As they walked, Preston looked at the Rolex he had no intention of giving up. In this time zone, 10:13. Good God, he must have slept two hours! In salt water, surrounded by mosquitoes. No wonder his body felt like a loofah.