"But Joey left me zippo, Red. All I've got is what's in the bank."

Red Hammernut calculated that he'd slipped Chaz twenty to thirty grand in cash over the years, most of which had probably been pissed away on greens fees and lap dances.

"Relax, boys. Let's put on our thinkin' caps."

Reaching into the bottom drawer of his desk, Red pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniel's and poured three glasses. Tool slurped his from a supine position.

"So, how long till he wants an answer?" Red Hammernut asked.

"He said he'd call Monday morning," Chaz said.

"And he ain't alone in this deal, right? You said there's a girlfriend."

Tool spoke up from the floor. "Name of Anna somethin' or other. She don't know much."

"Good," Red Hammernut said, though he had marginal confidence in Tool's assessment. "She wasn't totally scared to pieces of you?"

Tool grunted. "Didn't appear to be."

"Don't you think that's strange?"

"Chief, I give up tryin' to figger out women a long time ago."

"Amen," said Chaz Perrone.

"Well, let's assume the girlfriend knows what the blackmailer knows," Red Hammernut said, "and proceed from there. Who's ready for another belt?"

Tool raised his glass for a refill. "When can I go home, Red?"

"Soon as this mess is over. Won't be long, I promise."

"I miss my yard. All them pretty white crosses."

"Just hang in there, son," Red Hammernut said. "You're doin' a world-class job."

Chaz Perrone cleared his throat. "To be honest, Red, there's room for improvement. No offense, but it needs to be said."

Red Hammernut hoped Chaz would have more sense than to complain about Tool in Tool's presence, but he was wrong.

"Take last night," Chaz pressed on. "I end up all alone with that psycho blackmailer in the middle of the frigging Everglades. In a canoe."

"You're alive, ain't ya?" Tool said.

Red Hammernut couldn't see over the edge of the desk, but it sounded like Tool was scratching himself.

"Yeah, I'm alive. No thanks to you," Chaz snapped. Then, appeal-

ing to Red: "The bastard hit me over the head with a paddle. And look what he did to my nose!"

Red Hammernut tried to sound sympathetic. "Guy's got a mean streak, that's for sure."

"I thought the whole point of having a bodyguard," Chaz griped, "was to protect me from shit like this."

Tool raised his head and, by way of rebuttal, said: "Thar weren't 'nough room in that canoe for all three of us."

"Then how about the other night at the house?" Chaz needled. "The man kicked your ass."

"We ain't gonna talk about that," Tool said.

"Water under the bridge," Red Hammernut agreed.

"He's gotta be fifty years old, at least," Chaz went on, "and he damn near killed you!"

Tool's tone hardened. "Now you're just tellin' stories, boy."

Red Hammernut's patience ran out. "Both of you, I swear, just shut the hell up. This ain't no kindygarten."

Chaz fidgeted while Red slowly sipped his drink. Tool dozed off and began to snore.

After a few edgy minutes, Chaz let it rip. "What do you think, Red? About paying the guy."

"I think you got some brass balls, considerin' you're the one got us into this train wreck."

Chaz looked wounded. "Why? What did I do?"

Red thinking: That's the $500,000 question.

"This is serious," Chaz persisted. "Whoever this guy is, he could take us all down."

Of that fact, Red Hammernut was keenly aware. "Wait outside, son. I need to have a word with Mr. O'Toole."

"Good idea." Chaz headed confidently for the door. "Maybe he'll listen to you."

Red Hammernut walked around to the other side of the desk. With the toe of an ostrich-skinned boot he nudged Tool in the rib cage. The big man looked up dolefully and blinked.

"Red, please don't send me back to Boca fuckin' Raton."

"How 'bout I double your pay to a thousand a day?"

Tool sat up. "The doc kilt his wife."

"Yeah. You're probably right," Red Hammernut said.

"He had a woman over, did I tell ya? Ain't been widowed a week and already he's pokin' poon."

"If he were the Pope of Rome," said Red, "I wouldn't need your help."

Tool, still itching, unhooked the straps of his overalls to improve access. "Truth is, chief, I ain't cut out to be no bodyguard."

"Truth is, that ain't your job description. Not anymore."

Samuel Johnson Hammernut winked and slapped an envelope fat with cash on the desk. Tool brightened.

"I'll take another drink," he said.

Red passed the bottle.

Joey was baking in the sun, stretched out on the seawall, when she saw the glint of an airplane high overhead. It made her think of her parents and she had to smile, picturing that doped-up circus bear in the copilot's seat of the doomed Gulfstream. Hank and Lana Wheeler had lived and died with a flair that Joey envied. In that spirit she removed the top of her bikini and tossed it on the dock. It landed on the nose of Mick's Doberman, who awoke with a curious snort.

From out on the water came a rowdy hooray, followed by the sound of clapping. Joey spun around and blushed-two men were motoring slowly past the island in a dark green flats skiff, no more than fifty yards from the shore. The men were in their late twenties or early thirties and wore loose-fitting pastel fishing shirts of the style found in high-end outdoor catalogs. Strom shot to attention, shook free of the bikini top and began to bark. When Joey covered her breasts with her arms, the fishermen booed. She lay down and closed her eyes, hoping they would go away. She had come to cherish the solitude of the island, and to appreciate Mick's antipathy for uninvited visitors.

Strom was clattering up and down the dock in a slobbering rage that would have deterred most sensible persons, but the glimpse of a half-naked woman had obliterated what scant common sense was possessed by the young men in the green skiff. Joey could tell by the engine noise that they were edging closer.

Idiots, she thought.

Even in the middle of Biscayne Bay there was no avoiding this distinctly male brand of bad behavior. A sea breeze delivered their randy chuckles and lewd low-toned commentary, one of the men offering a favorable critique of her legs while the other speculated hopefully on the presence of a tattoo. In vain Joey prayed that their frat-house blather would be drowned out by Strom's manic barking. Yet when she looked up again, the boat was no more than sixty or seventy feet from the seawall.

"Hey, babe," one of the men said. "Let's see those tits again."

Joey could easily imagine Chaz in that skiff, making the same smurking, cloddish approach to a total stranger. Calmly she got up and walked to the shed where Mick stowed his fishing tackle. He'd been teaching her how to cast a spinning rod, and it seemed like a good opportunity to practice her accuracy. Distracted by a second sighting of her breasts, the two fishermen failed to take note as Joey tied the large plastic minnow to the line-a hefty deep-sea plug bristling with multiple sets of treble hooks.

Strom circled deliriously as Joey advanced, weapon in hand, to the end of the dock. The young man in the bow of the skiff was emitting a gargling sound, presumably in appreciation of Joey's physique, as she drew back the spinning rod. His gaze never left her chest, so he didn't see the fishing lure arcing brightly through the noonday sky. Joey wasn't sure if she snagged his shirt or the flesh of his neck, but in any case she jerked hard enough to spill the howling imbecile into the water.

She had reeled him halfway to shore when Strom, surrendering to ancient instincts, sprung off the dock and lustily attached himself to the thrashing angler's thigh. His companion bellowed in alarm but gave no thought to heroics; instead, he jammed the skiff's throttle into reverse and backed smartly away from the island.