"You're sure it's the detective?" Red asked.

"Who the hell else could it be? He's the only one who's been hassling me about Joey." Chaz was waving his hands in agitation. "He tried to disguise his voice over the phone and make like he was Charl-tonHeston!"

Tool grunted quizzically.

"That NRA guy," Red explained. "The one's got old-timer's disease."

"He's also in the movies," Chaz said thinly.

"You know who does a funny 'personation of Heston? That Robin Williams fella-"

"Red, are you even listening to me?"

"Course I am, son. This detective who does voices of movie stars, you think he's the same guy that's been sneakin' into your house?"

"Absolutely. It'd be damned easy for a cop," Chaz declared. "Know what he did today? Turned on my sprinklers. Pouring rain when I get home, and the sprinklers are running like Niagara fucking Falls! Dumb shit like that, it can make you nuts."

Red Hammernut thinking: He must be readin' my mind.

They were squeezed together like nuns in the back of the gray Cadillac-Red stinking like a knockoff Montecristo; Tool like a wet bull; and Chaz Perrone like the county dump where he had just tossed several boxes of his wife's belongings.

Red Hammernut had sent his driver into the doughnut shop in case Chaz blurted out something stupid or incriminating. It was a conversation that had to be managed carefully, as Red didn't wish to be taxed with unnecessary details. Whatever had happened between Chaz and Joey Perrone aboard the cruise ship was a private matter and ought to stay that way.

Eyeing Chaz now, Red had trouble picturing him tossing anybody overboard-especially Joey, who was a big strong girl. Tool could have handled her, no problem, but Chaz?

Maybe he's tougher than he looks, Red thought.

He said, "Son, you wanna hear somethin' wild? I met him this morning. Your cop."

"Rolvaag!" Chaz turned ashen. "Christ. How?"

"Drove all the way up to the farm to ask me about a rented mini-van." Red shot a sideways glance at Tool, who was absently picking a scab on his neck.

"Did he mention my name?" Chaz asked anxiously.

"He did not. Gave me a bullshit story, which I believed at the time, about Tool's good looks scarin' some friends of the sheriff. Needless to say, I didn't know it was the same detective that's been ridin' your ass."

Tool spoke up. "Red, I was ready to take care of him. Your boy here tole me not to."

"He was right," Red Hammernut said. "You can't deal with cops the same way you deal with beaners. That's a damn fact."

Chaz sighed dispiritedly. Tool cracked his knuckles and said, "I don't get how anybody can do a blackmail if your boy here ain't committed no crime."

Red laughed to himself. Once again, the man had gotten straight to the nut of the matter.

"The guy on the phone says he saw me throw Joey over the side of the ship. That's just not true," Chaz said.

Tool crinkled his brow. "What's not true? You didn't do it, or you did do it and nobody saw?"

Chaz opened his mouth to respond, but a sickly quack came out.

Red Hammernut quickly changed the subject. "This Rolvaag, he didn't strike me as the type to be runnin' his own game. I been around long 'nough to know a crook when I see 'em."

"And I'm telling you, he's the only one it could be." Chaz didn't sound as certain as Red would have liked. If Chaz had in fact thrown his wife off the ship, some stranger could have witnessed it; another passenger, a cabin boy, whoever.

"This blackmailer fella, let's make sure who he is and how much he wants," Red said to Chaz. "Could be some smartass just saw the story on the news and got the bright idea to shake you down. That kinda shit we can handle." He nodded confidently toward Tool. "But if it's really the cop, like you say, then we gotta be extra careful. He can cause all sorta problems, even if you ain't done nuthin' wrong."

Through clenched teeth, Chaz said, "I haven't, Red. Like I said, it was an accident."

"Take it easy, son. I believe you."

Tool, who was probing a hangnail with a rusty fishhook, snorted doubtfully.

"Next time this sumbitch calls," Red Hammernut said, "you try and set up a meeting."

"Christ, Red, you mean face-to-face?" Chaz whined. "But why? What're we going to do?"

"Listen politely to whatever he's got to say," Red said. "And, son, let's be clear on this. It ain't 'we.' It's 'you.' "

Mick Stranahan phoned Charles Perrone at 5:42 a.m.

"Good morning, dipshit," he said, this time doing Jerry Lewis. The Mexican writer who owned the island adored The Nutty Professor, and Stranahan had watched it often on the VCR. There were worse ways to get through a tropical depression.

At the other end of the line, Joey Perrone's husband needed a few moments to rouse himself. "Are you the same guy who called yesterday?"

"That's riiii-ghht."

Chaz Perrone said, "We should get together, you and me."

"Why?"

"To talk."

"We're talking now," Stranahan said. "You tossed your beloved into the Atlantic Ocean. I'm curious to hear an explanation."

"I didn't push her. She fell."

"That's not what I saw."

"Listen to me," Perrone pleaded, but his voice trailed away.

"Yoo-hoo? Chaz?"

"We should do this in person."

"Do what? There's eighteen hundred dollars in your checking account," Stranahan said. "That's pitiful."

"I can get more," Perrone blurted. Then, warily: "How'd you know what I have in the bank?"

"Pity-full."

"Don't hang up. Don't!"

Stranahan said, "How would you ever get enough money?"

"People owe me."

Stranahan laughed. "Are you a biologist or a loan shark?" "Okay, Rolvaag. Tell me how much you want." Again with the "Rolvaag" stuff, thought Stranahan. "I haven't decided on an amount," he said.

"Okay, when can we get together? I'm serious."

"Bye-bye, Chaz."

"Wait," Perrone said, "I've gotta ask-that voice you're doing?"

"Yeah?"

"Jim Carrey, right?"

Stranahan said, "Mister, my price just doubled."

Tool filled the bedroom doorway, demanding to know who the hell was calling so early in the morning. When Chaz Perrone said it was the blackmailer, Tool swore groggily and lurched back to bed. It had been a long, fitful night, the fentanyl patches having dried up one by one, dying like flowers. The so-called doctor had been no help whatsoever-obviously he hated the idea of Tool staying inside his house, and the feeling was mutual. But Red was the boss man, and Red said he didn't want Tool out on the street, freaking the neighbors. He was to remain with the doctor, and make sure nobody else broke in. Chaz Perrone grudgingly had surrendered the guest bedroom. Later Tool had attempted a shower, but within five minutes he shed so much tarry body hair that the drain clogged. Chaz had cleaned it out with a coat hanger; not saying a word, but Tool could tell he was ticked.

For breakfast Tool prepared an omelette, using nine eggs, a pint of clotted cream, a half pound of cheddar, assorted peppers, a pawful of pitted olives and four ounces of Tabasco. As Tool slurped down the pungent creation, the doctor reeled from the kitchen in disgust.

Afterward Tool announced he was heading out in search of medicine. "Where's the closest hospital?" he asked Chaz Perrone.

"Are you out of your mind? You can't sneak into a hospital and steal that stuff."

"Wherever they's a hospital, they's a nursing home close by. Or else a whatchacallit-a place where they put, you know, the terminals. Them that's gone die."

"You mean like a hospice."

"Right," Tool said, "where the people are too sickly to make a fuss."

"And then?"

"I look around till I find the ones with stick-on patches."