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.