Desie said, "You'll have to do better than that. I still don't believe you're nuts."

Twilly sighed. "What do you and Palmer talk about – politics? Television? Repression in Tibet?"

"Shopping." Desie spoke with no trace of shame or irony. "He's got a keen interest in automobiles and fine clothes. Though I suppose that doesn't count for much in your social circle."

"I have no social circle."

"And he also plays a little golf/' Desie said, "when he's not hunting."

"You play golf, too?"

"Exactly twice in my life. We're members at Otter Glen."

"How nice for you," Twilly said. "Ever see any otters out there?"

"Nope."

"Ever wonder why?"

"Not really," Desirata Stoat said.

Back in the motel room, McGuinn-Boodle was happy to see her. Twilly tried to play vet but the dog kept spitting out the pills. It turned into quite a comic scene. Finally Desie shooed Twilly aside and took over. She slipped one of the big white tablets under McGuinn's tongue while she massaged his throat. Serenely the Labrador swallowed the pill. When Twilly tried to duplicate Desie's technique, the pill came shooting out at him.

She said, "I'd say that clinches it."

"No, you cannotcome along."

"But I'm the only one who can give him the medicine. Yesterday he nearly took off Palmer's thumb."

"I'll get the hang of it," Twilly said.

After Desie got the dog to gulp the second pill, she asked Twilly about the new name.

"After a musician I'm fond of. Roger McGuinn."

She said, "You're way too young to be fond of Roger McGuinn."

"You know about him?" Twilly was thrilled.

"Sure. Maestro of the twelve-string. 'Eight Miles High,' 'Mr. Spaceman,' and so on."

"Fantastic!" Twilly said. "And how old are you?"

"Old enough." Desie gave him the knowing older-woman smile. She didn't mention her summer stints at Sam Goody's.

Twilly noticed she was stroking McGuinn with one hand and twisting the tail of her T-shirt with the other. Finally she got around to the big question.

"Tell me exactly what you want from my husband."

"I want him to clean up his act."

"Do what?"

"He's a loathsome pig. Everywhere he goes he leaves a trail of litter."

Desie said, "That's it?"

"I want him to get the message, that's all. I want to see shame in his eyes. Beyond that, hell, I don't know." Twilly tugged a thin blanket off the bed and tossed it to her. "Cover up, Desie. I can see your butt."

She said, "You're aiming low, Mr. Spaceman."

"How do you mean?"

"You know who my husband is? You have any idea what he does for a living?"

"No," Twilly said, "but the governor's office was on his answer machine the other night."

"Exactly, there you go – the governor himself. Probably calling about that ridiculous bridge."

"What bridge?" asked Twilly.

Desie got cross-legged on the floor, with the blanket across her lap. "Let me tell you some stories," she said, "about Palmer Stoat."

"No, ma'am, I'm taking you home."

But he didn't.

6

Twilly drove all night with the woman and the dog. They arrived at Toad Island shortly before dawn. Twilly parked on the beach and rolled down the windows.

"What are we doing here?" Desie said.

Twilly closed his eyes. He didn't open them again until he heard gulls piping and felt the sun on his neck. The Gulf was lead gray and slick. In the distance he saw Desie strolling the white ribbon of sand, the hulking black McGuinn at her side; above them were seabirds, carping. Twilly got out and stretched. He shed his clothes and plunged into the chilly water and swam out two hundred yards. From there he had a mariner's perspective of the island, its modest breadth and altitude and scraggled green ripeness, as it might have appeared long ago. Of course Twilly understood the terrible significance of a new bridge. He could almost hear his father's voice, rising giddily at the prospects. That this scrubby shoal had been targeted for development wasn't at all shocking to Twilly. The only genuine surprise was that somebody hadn't fucked it up sooner.

He breaststroked to shore. He stepped into his jeans and sat, dripping, on the hood of the rental car. When Desie returned, she said: "Boodle wanted to jump in and swim. That means he's feeling better."

Twilly gave her a reproachful look.

"McGuinn, I mean," she said. "So, is this what you expected to find?"

"It's nice."

"You think Governor Dick owns this whole island?"

"If not him, then some of his pals."

"How many people," Desie said, "you figure they want to cram out here? All total."

"I don't know. Couple thousand at least."

"That explains why they need a bigger bridge."

"Oh yes. Trucks, bulldozers, backhoes, cement mixers, cranes, gasoline tankers, cars and bingo buses." Twilly blinked up at the clouds. "I'm just guessing, Mrs. Stoat. I'm just going by history."

Desie said, "McGuinn found a man passed out on the beach. He didn't look too good."

"The unconscious seldom do."

"Not a bum. A regular-looking guy."

Twilly said, "I guess you want me to go have a look. Is that the idea?"

He slid off the car and headed down the shore. Desie whistled for the dog, and off they went. The passed-out man was in the same position in which she'd found him – flat on his back, pale hands interlocked in funereal calm across his chest. The man's mouth hung open and he was snorting like a broken diesel. A gleaming stellate dollop of seagull shit decorated his forehead; one eye was nearly swollen shut, and on the same cheek was a nasty sand-crusted laceration. Nearby lay a shoe and an empty vodka bottle.

Tail swishing, McGuinn inspected the passed-out man while Twilly Spree shook him by the shoulder. The man woke up hacking. He whispered "No" when Twilly asked if he needed an ambulance.

When Desie knelt beside him, he said, "I got drunk and fell off a bulldozer."

"That's a good one."

"I wish it weren't true." The man wiped his sleeve across the poop on his forehead. He grimaced when McGuinn wet-nosed the swollen side of his face.

"What's your name?" Desie asked.

"Brinkman." With Twilly's assistance, the man sat up. "Dr. Steven Brinkman," he said.

"What kind of doctor?"

Brinkman finally noticed what Desie was wearing – the long T-shirt and pearl earrings and nothing else – and became visibly flustered. The big Labrador retriever was also making him jumpy, snuffling in his most personal crevices.

"Are you an M.D.?" Desie said.

"Uh, no. What I am – I'm a field biologist."

Twilly stiffened. "What're you doing out here on the island?"

"This is where I work."

"For who?" Twilly demanded. "The Army Corps? Fish and Wildlife?"

Brinkman said, "Not exactly."

Twilly took him by the arm, hauled him to his feet and marched him up a grassy dune. "You and I need to talk."

Dr. Brinkman was not the only one who'd had a rough night. Palmer Stoat had relaxed to sloppy excess at Swain's bar, then wound up at a small party in the owner's private salon with two bottles of Dom, a box of H. Upmann's straight off a boat from Varadero, and a call girl who made Stoat show his voter's card, because she only did registered Republicans. Stoat was so bewitched by the woman's ideological fervency that he couldn't properly concentrate on the sex. Eventually the halting encounter dissolved into a philosophical colloquy that lasted into the wee hours and left Stoat more exhausted than a routine night of illicit intercourse. He crept home with a monstrous headache and collapsed in one of the guest rooms, so as not to alert Desirata, whom he presumed to be slumbering alone in the marital bed.