The next thing Decker knew, James was hunched over him with one knee propped on the sofa for leverage. Intently he kneaded and probed the back of Decker's neck, while Catherine watched cross-legged on an ottoman.

"That hurt?" James asked.

Decker grunted. It did hurt, but the rubbing helped; James seemed to know what he was doing.

"Brother, you're really out of alignment," he said.

"That's a medical term?"

"Full traction is what you need. Slings and weights. Thermal therapy. Ultrasound. You're too young for Medicare, otherwise I'd fix you right up with a twelve-week program." James worked his fingers along Decker's spine. He seemed at ease now, enjoying the role of expert. "Have you got any insurance?" he asked.

"Nope," Decker said.

"Workmen's comp? Maybe you're in an HMO."

"Nope." The guy was unbelievable; the pitchman's spark was probably left over from his days of peddling condos.

"I must caution you," James went on, "that injuries such as this should never go untreated. Your neck has been wrenched badly."

"I'm aware of that," Decker said, wincing under the chiropractor's explorations. "Tell me, what's the difference between this and a massage?"

"I'm a doctor, that's the difference. Don't move now, I think I've got an extra brace in the trunk of the car."

After James had left the room, Catherine came over and knelt down on the floor next to Decker. "Tell me what's happened, Rage."

"Somebody's trying to frame me for a murder."

"Who? Not the Fish People!"

"Afraid so," Decker said. He was ready for a trenchant scolding—this was Catherine's specialty—but for some reason (probably pity) she refrained.

"The guy out back, Grizzly Adams—"

"He's all right," Decker said.

"James is scared of him."

"So am I, but he's all I've got."

Catherine kissed him lightly on the ear. "Is there anything I can do?"

For one flushed moment Decker felt his heart stop. Bump, bump—then dead air. All from a whiff of perfume and a silly peck on the earlobe. It was so wonderful that Decker almost forgot she'd dumped him for a guy who wore ninety-dollar bathrobes.

Catherine said, "I want to help."

"Does James have a broker?" Decker asked.

"Yes. Hutton, Shearson, somebody big like that. It's a VIP account, that much I know. They sent us a magnum of champagne last Christmas."

Decker said, 'This is what I need. Tell James you got a tip at the beauty parlor—"

"Oh, please."

"Or wherever, Catherine, just tell him you got a tip on a stock. It's traded as OCN, I think. The Outdoor Christian Network. See if your husband's broker can send over a prospectus. I need a copy as soon as possible."

She said, "He'll think it's odd. We never talk about his investments."

"Try it," Decker said. "Play dumb and sweet and just-trying-to-help. You can do it."

"You're still an asshole, Rage."

"And you're still a vision, Catherine. Would your husband get too terribly upset if you and I took off our clothes and hopped in the shower? We can tell him it's part of my medical treatment. Hot-water traction, they call it."

At that moment James walked in, too preoccupied to notice his wife scooting back to the ottoman. James was carrying a foam-padded brace, the kind that fastens around the neck like a collar.

"That man," he said indignantly, "has built a bonfire in our backyard!"

Catherine went to the window. "For heaven's sake it's not a bonfire,"she said. "It's just a barbecue, honey, no worse than you and your hibachi."

"But the hibachi is gas," James protested.

R. J. Decker pushed himself off the sofa and went to see for himself. Skink huddled in a familar pose beneath the avocado tree; crouched on his haunches, tending a small campfire.

"He looks like a damn hobo," James said.

"That's enough," Catherine snapped. "He's not hurting anybody."

Decker observed that Skink had fashioned a rotisserie spit out of dead branches. He was cooking a chunk of gray meat over the fire, rotating it slowly by hand.

"What do you suppose he's got there?" Catherine said.

"Probably something gross he scrounged from the garbage," James said. "Or maybe a duck out of that filthy canal."

In the flickering shadows Decker couldn't be sure, but he had a pretty good idea what his friend was fixing for dinner. It was Bambi, of course. Skink was serenely roasting the doctor's pet poodle.

R. J. Decker took a bed in one of the guestrooms, but he couldn't sleep. Dancing on the walls were cartoon sheep in red tuxedos—wallpaper for a baby's room, obviously, but Catherine had never been too wild about kids. On this matter the chiropractor had failed to change her mind. Still, Decker admired his optimism for leaving the nursery wallpaper up.

When Decker closed his eyes, the tuxedoed sheep were replaced by the face of Dennis Gault: the seething visage of a man trying to strangle him. Decker wondered if the fistfight at Gault's condominium had been an act like everything else; he wondered if Gault were really that clever or ballsy, or if things had just fallen right. Decker couldn't wait to meet up with Gault and ask him. Afterward it would be nice to choke the sonofabitch so decisively that his eyeballs would pop out of his skull and roll across his fancy glass desk like a couple of aggies.

At about three o'clock Decker gave up on sleep and got out of bed. From the window there was no sign of Skink's campfire, or of Skink himself. Decker assumed—hoped, at least—that he was curled up in the bushes somewhere.

For Decker, being in the same house with Catherine was unnerving. Though it was also the house of James, Catherine's tastes predominated—smart and elegant, and so expensive that Decker marveled how such a destitute mongrel as himself had managed to keep her as long as he had. If only he could steal a few moments alone with her now, but how? Skink wanted to be on the road before dawn_ there was little time.

Barefoot, and wearing only his underwear, Decker made his way through the long hallways, which smelled of Catherine's hair and perfume. A couple of times, near doorways, Decker had to step carefully over the white beams of photosensitive alarm units, which were mounted at knee-level throughout the house.

Photoelectronic burglar alarms were the latest rage among the rich in Miami, thanks to a widely publicized case in which a whole gang of notorious cat burglars was captured inside a Star Island mansion after tripping the silent alarm. The gang had comprised bold Mariel refugees relatively new to the country and unschooled in the basic skills and technology of modern burglary. While looting the den of the mansion, one of the Cuban intruders had spotted a wall-mounted photoelectronic unit and naturally assumed it was a laser beam that would incinerate them all if they dared cross it. Consequently, they did not. They sat there all night and, the next morning, surrendered sheepishly to police. The incident made all the TV news. Photo-electronic burglar alarms became so popular that burglars soon began to specialize in stealing the alarms themselves. In many of the houses where such devices were installed, the alarm itself was more valuable than anything else on the premises. For a while, all the fences in Hialeah were paying twice as much for stolen burglar alarms as they were for Sony VCRs, but even at five hundred a pop it was virtually impossible for thieves to keep up with the demand.

Tiptoeing around the alarm beams, Decker found the master bedroom at the far west end of Catherine's house. He listened at the door to make sure nothing was going on, and was greatly relieved to hear the sound of snoring.

Decker slipped into the room. He stood at the door until his eyes adjusted; the window shades were drawn and it was very dark. Gradually he inched toward the source of the snoring until his right foot stubbed a wooden bed poster. Decker bit back a groan, and one of the two forms in the big bed stirred and turned slightly under the covers. Decker knelt by the side of the bed, and the form snored directly into his face.