"There's plenty more," said Twilly's mother, "if you change your mind. And I apologize, kids, for not having wine."

"Mom gave up drinking," Twilly explained to Desie.

"But if I'd known you were coming, I would have picked up a bottle of nice merlot," said Amy Spree.

"We're just fine. The food is fantastic," Desie said.

"What about your puppy?"

"He'll eat later, Mrs. Spree. There's a bag of chow in the car."

Dessert was a chocolate cheesecake. Twilly was cutting a second slice when his mother said, "Your father was asking about you."

"You still talk to him?"

"He calls now and again. Between flings."

"So how's waterfront moving out on the West Coast?" Twilly said.

"That's what I wanted to tell you. He quit the business!"

"I don't believe that. Quit, or retired?"

"Actually, they took away his real estate license."

"In California?"

"He didn't go into all the gory details."

Twilly was incredulous. "Don't you have to disembowel somebody to lose your real estate license in California?"

"Son, I couldn't believe it, either. Know what he's selling now? Digital home entertainment systems. He mailed me a color brochure but I can't make sense of it."

Twilly said, "You know what gets me, Mom? He could've quit the business after Big Phil died. All that money – Dad didn't need to hawk one more lousy foot of beach. He could've moved to the Bahamas and gone fishing."

"No, he could not," said Amy Spree. "Because it's in his blood, Twilly. Selling oceanfront is in his blood."

"Please don't say that."

"Excuse me," Desie interjected, "but Palmer acts like he needs to use the little boy's room."

"Again?" Twilly rose irritably. "Jesus, his bladder's smaller than his conscience."

Later Amy Spree walked them downstairs, where her son hoisted the rocking chair (with Palmer Stoat, squirming against the ropes) into the station wagon.

She said, "Twilly, what're you going to do with him? For heaven's sake, think about this. You're twenty-six years old."

"You want to take his picture, Mother? He likes to get his picture made. Isn't that right, Palmer?"

From under the puckering pillowcase came a snort.

"Polaroids especially," said Twilly.

Desie blushed. From the rocker came a dejected moan.

Amy Spree said: "Twilly, please don't do something you'll come to regret." Then, turning to Desie: "You stay on his case, all right? He's got to buckle down and work on that anger."

Twilly slid behind the wheel, with Desie on the other side and McGuinn hunkered between them, drooling on the dashboard.

"I love you, son," said Amy Spree. "Here, I wrapped the rest of the cheesecake."

"I love you, too, Mom. Happy birthday."

"Thanks for remembering."

"And I'll bring back the rocking chair."

"No hurry."

"Might be next year," said Twilly, "maybe sooner."

"Whenever," said his mother. "I know you're busy."

Word of the governor's veto somehow reached Switzerland. Robert Clapley was floored when one of the bankers financing Shearwater Island called him up in the middle of the night. "Vot hippen to ze bridge?" All the way from Geneva at two-thirty in the morning – like he'd never heard of international time zones, the icy-blooded bastard.

Yet Clapley was wide-awake, skull abuzz, when the phone rang. All night long he'd been trying to contact Palmer Stoat, as the Barbies were on a bimbo rampage for more rhinoceros powder. Clapley had returned from Tampa and found them locked in the bathroom, a boom box blasting fusion dance music from behind the door. An hour later the two women emerged arm in arm, giggling. Katya's hair was tinted electric-pink to match her tube top, and from the sun-bronzed cleft between her breasts arose an ornate henna fer-de-lance, fangs bared and dripping venom. By contrast, Tish had dressed up as a man, complete with a costume mustache, in Clapley's favorite charcoal gray Armani.

He was struck helpless with horror. The women looked vulgar and deviant – anti-Barbies! They announced they were going to a strip club near the airport for amateur night. First prize: a thousand bucks.

"I'll give you two thousand," Clapley pleaded, "to stay home with me."

"You got horn?" Katya, with a cruel wink. "No? Then we go score some." And merrily they had breezed out the door.

On the telephone, the banker from Geneva was saying: "Ze bridge, Mr. Clapley, vot hippen?"

And over and over Robert Clapley tried to make the stubborn blockhead understand there was no cause for alarm. Honest. Trust me. The governor's a close personal friend. The veto was nothing but a sly deception. The new bridge is good to go. Shearwater Island is a done fucking deal.

"So relax, Rolf, for God's sake." Clapley was fuming. He'd answered the phone only because he thought it might be that fuckweasel Stoat, finally returning his calls, or possibly the Palm Beach County vice squad, with precious Katya and Tish in custody ...

"But ze newspaper said – "

"I told you, Rolf, it's just politics. Jerkwater Florida politics, that's all."

"Yes, but you see, Mr. Clapley, with a line of credit as large as vot ve extended to you – "

"Yeah, I know what you ex-shtended – "

"Von hundred ten million, U.S."

"I'm keenly aware of the amount, Rolf."

"News such as this vood naturally cause some concern. It is understandable, no? Given our exposure."

"Sure. So let me say it one more time.And feel free to pass this along to all your associates at the bank: There's nothing to worry about, OK? Now you say it."

From the other end: "Vot?"

"Your turn," said Robert Clapley. "Repeat after me: THERE IS NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT. Come on, Rolf, let me hear you."

The problem was: Clapley was unaccustomed to dealing with bankers. He was used to dealing with dopers – criminals, to be sure, but far more flexible and pragmatic when something went wrong. The average drug smuggler lived in a world crawling with fuck-offs, deadbeats and screwups; not a day of his life unfolded exactly as planned. He transacted narcotics, guns and cash, routinely taking insane risks that young Rolf in Geneva could not possibly fathom. Exposure? thought Robert Clapley. This cheesebrain doesn't know the meaning of the word.

"Oh, Rolf?"

"Dere is nutting to vorry bout."

"Thattaboy," said Clapley.

He had resorted to Swiss bankers only because the Shearwater project had become too big for dope money – or at least Robert Clapley's kind of dope money. Oh, Toad Island he'd bought up all by himself, no sweat. However, more serious dough was needed to clear the place and remake it into a world-class golf and leisure community. Clapley's only other project, a seventeen-story apartment tower off Brickell Avenue in Miami, had been financed entirely with marijuana and cocaine profits, which Clapley had washed and loaned to himself through a phony Dutch holding company. He would have loved to work the same scam with Shearwater Island but he didn't have $100-odd million in loose cash lying around, and the only people who did were people who didn't need Robert Clapley to invest it for them: seasoned Colombian money launderers who favored commercial real estate over residential.

So Clapley had gone looking for his first-ever legitimate partners and wound up with the Swiss bankers, who had been so impressed by the balance sheet on the Brickell Avenue tower that they'd offered him a generous line of credit for developing and marketing his scenic island getaway on Florida's Gulf Coast. Afterward, the bankers mostly had left Clapley alone – so much so that he'd been lulled into complacency.

Because, obviously, they'd been keeping a cold blue Aryan eye on his ass. How else would they have found out that Dick Artemus had vetoed the damn Shearwater bridge?