Suddenly he thought of something to make the recording even more dramatic: Redub it with a symphonic piece, one that ended with a crashlike crescendo of cymbals – a musical simulation of an aircraft breaking up as it smashes into the ground.

Sir? You there?

Boom, boooooom, KA-BOOOOOOOM!

"Oh, yeah," Mr. Gash murmured. He got out of the car to stretch. It was nearly daylight on Toad Island, and still there was no sign of the troublemaker, the woman, the black dog or the Buick Roadmaster.

Mr. Gash went down the street to the bed-and-breakfast. He ambled up the porch steps and knocked. Mrs. Stinson called him around to the kitchen, where she was making muffins. At the screen door she greeted him warily, studying his oily spiked hair with unmasked disapproval.

Mr. Gash said, "I'm looking for a guy with a black dog."

"Who're you?"

"He's driving a big station wagon. Might have a woman along."

"I said, who are you?"

"The guy owes me some money," said Mr. Gash. "He owes everybody money, so if I were you I'd be careful."

Mrs. Stinson offered a chilly smile through the screen. "Well, he paid me cash. In advance."

"I'll be damned."

"So get on outta here before I call the law. You two settle this some other time, 'cause I don't allow no trouble."

Mr. Gash put one hand against the door. He made it appear casual, as if he was only leaning. "Is he here now? That dog is dangerous, by the way. Killed some little girl down in Clewiston. Ripped her throat out. That's another reason this guy's on the run. Was he here last night?"

"I don't know where they went, mister. All I know is, the room's paid for and I'm doing my muffins, because breakfast is part of the package." Mrs. Stinson took a step back, positioning herself (Mr. Gash noticed) within reach of a wall phone.

"As for that dog of his," she said, "he's about as scary as a goldfish, and not much smarter. So you get on outta here. I mean it."

"You don't know this guy, ma'am. He's bad news."

"I don't know you,"Mrs. Stinson barked. "Now go! You and your fairy hairdo."

Mr. Gash was about to punch through the screen when he heard a car turn the corner. He spun around, his heartbeat quickening because he thought it was the young troublemaker, returning in the Buick woody.

It wasn't. It was a black-and-tan Highway Patrol cruiser.

"How about that!" said Mrs. Stinson.

Mr. Gash edged away from her door. He watched the state police car go by the house, a black uniformed trooper at the wheel. In the backseat cage of the car was the form of a man, a prisoner slumped sideways against a door as if he had passed out. Mr. Gash wasn't sure, but it seemed like the trooper slowed down a little when he passed the bed-and-breakfast.

From behind him, Mr. Gash heard Mrs. Stinson chortle: "Ha! You still wanna chat, smart-mouth?"

As soon as the police cruiser was out of sight, Mr. Gash stepped off the porch and began to walk. He had a story ready, just in case: The car wouldn't start. He went to the bed-and-breakfast to use the phone. Next thing he knows, the old hag starts raving at him like some nut ...

On the road Mr. Gash saw no sign of the Highway Patrolman. He got to his car and kept walking; circled the block at an easygoing pace and returned. Better safe than sorry, he thought. It was probably nothing at all. Probably just some DUI that the state trooper was carting off to jail. That's about all they were good for, Mr. Gash mused, busting drunks.

He pulled off his houndstooth jacket and laid it on the front seat. Then he stepped behind a pine tree to take a leak. He was zipping up when he heard movement – something on the edge of the trees, near the car. Mr. Gash took out his gun and peered around the trunk of the pine. He saw a bum crouched by the side of the road.

Mr. Gash stole out from behind the tree. The bum had his back to him; a big sonofabitch, too. When he stood up, he was nearly a foot taller than Mr. Gash. He appeared to be wearing a white-and-black checkered skirt over bare legs and hiking boots.

With confidence Mr. Gash returned the gun to his shoulder holster. He smiled to himself, thinking: This dolly would be a hit on Ocean Drive.

When the bum turned around, Mr. Gash reconsidered his assessment.

"Take it easy, pops." Hoping the man took notice of the gun under his arm.

The bum said nothing. He wore a cheap shower cap on his head, and he had a jittery red eyeball that looked like a party gag. A silvery beard hung off his cheeks in two ropy braids, each decorated with a hooked beak. In one of his huge hands the bum held by its tail an opossum, its jaw slack and its fur crusty with blood. In the other hand was a paperback book.

Mr. Gash said, "Where'd you come from?"

The man smiled broadly, startling Mr. Gash. He had never seen a bum with such perfect teeth, much whiter than his own.

"Nice dress." Mr. Gash, testing the guy.

"Actually it's a kilt. Made it myself."

"You got a name?"

"Not today," said the bum.

"I hope you weren't planning to steal my car."

The bum grinned again. He shook his head no, in a manner suggesting that Mr. Gash's car wasn't worth stealing.

Mr. Gash pointed at the opossum and said, "Your little pal got a name?"

"Yeah: Lunch. He got hit by a dirt bike."

Mr. Gash thought the bum seemed oddly at ease, being interrogated by a stranger with a handgun.

"You didn't answer my question, pops. Where'd you come from?"

The bum held up the book. "You should read this."

"What is it?" Mr. Gash said.

"''The Comedians.By Graham Greene."

"Never heard of him."

"He would have enjoyed meeting you."

"The hell's thatsupposed to mean?" Mr. Gash took two steps toward the car. He was creeped out by the guy's attitude, the nonchalant way he handled the dead opossum.

The bum said, "I'll loan you my copy."

Mr. Gash got in his car and started the engine. The bum came closer.

"Stop right there, pops." Mr. Gash, whipping out the semiautomatic. The guy stopped. His weird red iris was aimed up toward the tree-tops, while his normal eye regarded Mr. Gash with a blank and unnerving indifference.

Mr. Gash waggled the gun barrel and said, "You never saw me, understand?"

"Sure."

"Or the car."

"Fine."

"The fuck are you staring at?"

There it was again – that toothpaste-commercial smile.

"Nice hair," the bum said to Mr. Gash.

"I ought to kill you, pops. Just for that I ought to shoot your sorry homeless ass ... "

But the bum in the homemade checkered skirt turned away. Toting his paperback book and his roadkill opossum, he slowly made his way into the pines, as if Mr. Gash wasn't there; wasn't pointing a loaded gun at his back, threatening to blow him away on the count of six.

Mr. Gash sped off, burning rubber. What a motherfreaking nutcase! he thought. I hate this place and I hate this job. A whole goddamn island full of troublemakers!

Mr. Gash turned on the tape and punched the rewind button.

Very soon, he reminded himself. Then I get to go home.