Jim Tile sucked in his breath and sat down again. He folded both arms across his knees and rested his head. He would've strangled a nun for a drop of warm ginger ale.

Then came the gunshot, followed by two, three, four more. The trooper raised up and smiled.

"Melodramatic sonofabitch," he said.

The man whom Jim Tile had been sent to find was almost sixty now, but he stood formidably erect and broad-shouldered. Beneath a thin plastic shower cap his pate gleamed egg pink and freshly shorn. He had taken to wearing a kilt and little else; a kilt fashioned from a checkered racing flag. Jiffy Lube 300, the man said, I sort of stole it. He offered no explanation whatsoever for the origin of his weapon, an AK-47.

The man had grown out his silver beard in two extravagant tendrils, one blossoming from each cheek. The coils hung like vines down his broad leathery chest, and were so intricately braided that Jim Tile wondered if a woman had done it. Fastened by a ribbon to the end of each braid was the hooked beak of a large bird. Vultures, the man acknowledged. Big fuckers, too. His tangled eyebrows were canted at a familiar angle of disapproval, and somewhere he had gotten himself a new glass eye. This one had a crimson iris, as stunning as a fresh-bloomed hibiscus. Jim Tile found the effect disarming, and somewhat creepy.

The one-eyed kilted man had once been a popular and nationally famous figure, a war hero turned political crusader; brash, incorruptible and of course doomed to fail. It was Jim Tile who had driven the limousine that finally carried the man away from the governor's mansion, away from Tallahassee and a creeping volcanic insanity. It was Jim Tile who had delivered him – his ranting friend – into a private and sometimes violent wilderness, and who had endeavored for more than two decades to keep track of him, watch over him, stop him when he needed to be stopped.

The trooper had done the best he could, but there had been the occasional, unpreventable eruption. Gunplay. Arson. Wanton destruction of property. Even homicide – yes, his friend had killed a few men since leaving Tallahassee. Jim Tile was sure of it. He was equally sure the men must have behaved very badly, and that in any case the Lord, above all, was best qualified to judge Clinton Tyree. That day would come soon enough. In the meantime, Jim Tile would remain recklessly loyal to the man now known as "Skink."

"How's your lovely bride?"

"Just fine," the trooper replied.

"Still like your steaks scorched?" The ex-governor was bending over a crude fire pit, flames flicking perilously at the ringlets of his beard.

Jim Tile said, "What's on the menu tonight?" It was a most necessary question; his friend's dining habits were eclectic in the extreme.

"Prime filet of llama!"

"Llama," said the trooper, pensively. "Should I even ask?"

"A circus came to town. I swear to God, up in Naranja, a genuine carny."

"Uh-oh."

"Not what you think," Skink said. "Poor thing fell off a truck ramp and fractured both front legs. The girl who owned the critter, she didn't have the heart to put it down herself."

"I get the picture."

"So I did it as a favor. Plus you know how I feel about wasting meat."

Jim Tile said, "What in the world were you doing at a circus?"

Skink grinned; the same charming matinee-idol grin that had gotten him elected. "Romance, Lieutenant. It didn't last long, but it was fairly wonderful for a while."

"She do the beard?"

"Yessir. You like it?" Skink stroked his lush silvery braids. "The beaks were my touch. They're fresh."

"So I noticed."

"Had a little run-in with these two birds. They took an unhealthy interest in my llama."

Jim Tile shook his head. "But you know the law on buzzards. They're protected."

"Not too effectively, in my experience." Skink flipped the steaks in the pan and stepped back from the sizzle. He used a corner of the kilt to wipe a spatter of hot grease off his glass eye. "You're here about the Japanese, right?"

"No," said the trooper, "but I am curious."

"You know who they worked for? MatsibuCom, those greedy, forest-nuking, river-wrecking bastards. But they're strong little buggers, one-on-one, even the ladies. Fiberglass canoes are heavier than you think, Jim. Two miles they hauled 'em on their shoulders, through some pretty thick cover."

"What exactly did you do to those folks, Governor?"

"Nothing. We talked. We hiked. Went for a ride. Nibbled on some llama cutlets. I showed them a few sights, too. Immature bald eagle. Butterfly hatch. Baby crocs." Skink shrugged. "I believe I broadened their horizons."

"They didn't have much to say when they got back."

"I should hope not. I explained to them how seriously I value my privacy. Hey, all we got for refreshments is good old H-two-oh. That OK?"

"Perfect," said Jim Tile. It had been a long time since he had seen the man so talkative. "It's nice to find you in a civilized mood."

"Afterglow, brother." Skink spoke wistfully. "The Human Slinky – that was her circus name. Said she was limber in places other women don't even have places. She made me laugh, Jim. I've gotten to where that counts more than ... well, that other stuff. Which means I'm either getting real old or real smart. Brenda make you laugh?"

"All the time."

"Fantastic. How about we shut up now and eat?"

Cooked well done, the llama tasted fine. After lunch Skink snatched up his assault rifle and led the trooper at a brisk pace down a sparse trail, past an abandoned cockfighting ring and across County 905 to his new base camp. He had set it up in the buggy shade of an ancient mangrove canopy, within earshot of the ocean. There was no tent but there was a genuine NASCAR Dodge, number 77, blue and gold and plastered bumper-to-bumper with colorful decals: Purolator, Delco, Firestone, Rain-X, Autolite, Bose, BellSouth, Outback Steak House, Sudafed and more. The governor caught Jim Tile staring and said: "From that obscene racetrack up in Homestead. Fifty million dollars of tax money they spent. The car came from there."

"You swiped it."

"Correct."

"Because ... "

"The godawful noise, Jim. You could hear it all the way across Card Sound. Gave me the worst migraine – you know how I get."

Dumbstruck, the trooper walked a circle around the stolen stock car.

"It's just the body," Skink said. "No engine block or tranny."

"Then how'd you manage?"

"It was on an eighteen-wheeler. The crew parked it behind the Mutineer after the race – the dopes, though I guess they were bright enough to win. They hung the checkered flag off the CB antenna, bless their little hillbilly hearts." Skink paused to admire his new kilt. "Anyhow, the car is where I sleep these days."

The auto theft was one more thing Jim Tile wished he didn't know about. "Where's the truck rig?" he asked uneasily.

"Farther down the shore, toward the abandoned marina. That's where I keep all my books, except for the Graham Greene. Those, I'm traveling with." Skink slid his butt up on the shiny hood of the N AS CAR Dodge. Idly he twirled the buzzard beaks on the ends of his beard. "So let's hear the bad news, Jim."

The trooper eyed him squarely. "They want you to hunt down a man. Some wild young kid who's hiding out in the boonies. Seems he reminds them of a junior Clinton Tyree."

"They being ... "

"Our current governor, the Honorable Dick Artemus."

Skink snorted. "Never heard of him."

"Well, he's heard of you. Wants to meet you someday."

At this, Skink hooted. The trooper went on: "This boy they want you to find, he's been trying to stop a new bridge from getting built."

"I expect he's got a name."

"Unknown."

"Where are they putting this bridge?"

"Place called Toad Island, up on the Gulf. The boy's kidnapped the pet dog of some important guy, some asshole buddy of the governor. And now the governor's pal is receiving pooch parts via Federal Express."