“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.
Stoat slept past noon and woke up to a grim hangover and a silent house. Spears of sunlight slanted harshly through the Bahamas shutters. Stoat buried his face in a pillow and thought again of the voluble prostitute at Swain’s. To meet someone with genuine political ideals was a rarity in Stoat’s line of work; as a lobbyist he had long ago concluded there was no difference in how Democrats and Republicans conducted the business of government. The game stayed the same: It was always about favors and friends, and who controlled the dough. Party labels were merely a way to keep track of the teams; issues were mostly smoke and vaudeville. Nobody believed in anything except hanging on to power, whatever it took. So, at election time, Palmer Stoat always advised his clients to hedge generously by donating large sums to all sides. The strategy was as immensely pragmatic as it was cynical. Stoat himself was registered independent, but he hadn’t stepped inside a voting booth in fourteen years. He couldn’t take the concept seriously; he knew too much.
Yet it was refreshing to hear the call girl go on so earnestly about the failure of affirmative action and the merit of prayer in public schools and the dangerous liberal assault on the Second Amendment. None of those subjects affected Palmer Stoat’s life to the point that he’d formed actual opinions, but it was entertaining to meet someone who had, someone with no covert political agenda.
If only he’d been able to screw her, Erika the call girl. Or was it Estelle? Brightly Stoat thought: Now there’s a candidate for an evening of fine wine and rhino powder. He reminded himself to reach out once more to the mysterious Mr. Yee in Panama City.
The ring of the telephone cleaved Stoat’s cranium like a cutlass, and he lunged for the receiver. The sound of his wife’s voice befuddled him. Maybe he was in the wrong house! If so, how had Desie found him?
“I didn’t want you to worry,” she was saying on the other end.
“Right.” Stoat bolted upright and looked around the room, which he was relieved to recognize.
“I can explain,” Desie was saying, an odd jittery edge in her tone.
“OK.”
“But not right now,” she said.
“Fine.”
“Aren’t you going to ask if I’m all right?”
“Yes, sweetie. I’ve been, huh, out of my mind wondering where you went.”
An unreadable pause on the other end. Then, too sweetly, Desie saying, “Palmer?”
“Yes, hon.”
“You didn’t even know I was gone, did you?”
“Sure I did. It’s just… see, I got home late and crashed in one of the guest bedrooms—”
“Sixteen hours.”
“—so I wouldn’t wake you up.”
“Sixteen bloody hours!”
Stoat said, “What?”
“That’s how long it’s been.”
“Christ. Where? Tell me what happened.”
“You just got up, didn’t you? Unbelievable.” Now Desie sounded disgusted. “You were so smashed, you never bothered to check in the bedroom.”