Honey timed her call for 6:45 p.m. in East Texas. She was hoping Boyd and his wife were in the midst of dinner.

I’m Mr. Shreave.

Honey knew it was him. That voice, dripping confidence and cordiality, was unforgettable.

She was caught off guard when he interrupted her pitch, but she rolled with it, letting him play the wise old pro. His description of her telephone style as “creamy” was amusing, since she’d deliberately softened her tone to sound different from their only previous conversation.

The moment he asked about travel expenses, Honey knew he was hooked. It was a total high; she was almost ashamed by how excited she felt. Now all she had to do was talk her ex-husband out of the plane tickets.

In the car Honey reached to turn down the radio, only to find that it was off. The music she heard was coming from inside her skull, one of the usual symptoms. Today it was two oldies-a wretched disco number, and the peppy “Marrakesh Express” by Crosby, Stills amp; Nash. The static, over which Honey had no control, was worse than on the Cuban stations from Miami.

Her mouth was dry by the time she pulled into Perry Skinner’s driveway. The house sat on the Barron River, up the bend from the Rod and Gun Club. It wasn’t a huge place but she liked its old, comfortable look. The floors and beams were made of real Dade County pine, which these days was practically impossible to find. Perry Skinner had purchased the house shortly after the divorce, Honey suspecting that the down payment was left over from his smuggling days. Three doors down lived a famous fishing guide who’d taught Fry how to cast for tarpon.

Skinner was alone on the front porch, having a drink.

“Where’s the boy?” he asked when Honey got out of the car.

“Track practice. He’ll be home around nine,” she said, letting Perry know she couldn’t stay and chitchat-she had a tight schedule.

He nodded toward a wicker rocking chair.

Honey sat down but made a point of not rocking. This was a business appointment, after all.

“Fry said you had some problems with the plane tickets.”

Skinner said, “Not problems, just questions.”

“All I need is two coach seats on American. I remembered you had tons of frequent-flier miles from visiting Paul out West.”

Paul was Perry’s older brother and former partner in the marijuana trade. Thanks to his arrogant Tampa attorney, Paul got heavier time, and for spite the feds stuck him in a prison camp way out in Oregon.

Skinner said, “I can buy you the damn tickets, Honey. That’s not the issue.”

“Then what is?”

“Are you taking Fry somewhere? I’ve got a right to know-it says so in the settlement.”

Honey puffed her cheeks and blew out the air. “Honest to God, the kid’s like a mini-you. He asked me the same ridiculous thing.”

“So the answer is no.”

“A big fat capital N-O! What-did you think I was moving away?” she asked. “I wouldn’t do that to Fry. He loves it here.”

Skinner said, “I heard you quit the fish market.”

She shrugged. “There’s other things I want to do with my life. And don’t give me that sideways look of yours.”

Lord, he’s still a handsome guy, she thought. Nobody could ever say I didn’t have a good eye.

“Did Louis Piejack really grab one of your boobs?” Skinner asked matter-of-factly.

Honey Santana felt herself blush. “Word sure gets around. Yeah, but don’t worry-I fixed his sorry wagon.”

Skinner leaned close and whispered, “Hold still.”

Honey almost broke into a tremble, thinking he was going to kiss her, yet all he did was very gently brush a mosquito from her neck. She wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed.

Skinner said, “So who are the plane tickets for?”

“A couple of friends of mine from Texas,” she said. “I’ll pay you back as soon as I get another job. I already put in for cashier at the Super Wal-Mart in Naples.”

He smiled. “You don’t have to pay me back. And, no offense, Honey, but Wal-Mart ain’t ready for the likes of you.”

“Hey, I’ve been doing real good,” she said defensively. “Didn’t Fry tell you how great I was doing?”

“Still on the medicine?”

“Twice a day.”

“Because otherwise I’d offer you a drink,” he said.

“No mixing booze with the happy pills. Doctor’s orders.” It was the easiest part of the charade; Honey had never cared much for alcohol. “So, we’re cool with the tickets?”

“I’ll need the names of your two friends.”

“Here, I wrote everything down.” She took a paper from her purse and handed it to him. “I appreciate it,” she said. “This is important.”

Skinner turned toward the river, where a snook was blasting minnows under the dock lights.

“It sucks that you’re not tellin’ me everything,” he said.

“When are you gonna stop worrying?”

“Maybe when you get a grip on the world.”

“Boy, that’s a shitty thing to say.” But Honey could barely hear her own words above the melodies clashing in her brainpan.

Three days later, Eugenie Fonda sat cross-legged on the bathroom floor, listening to Sacco’s theory that Bill Gates was not only the Antichrist but the illegitimate spawn of Jesse Helms and Grace Slick.

Evidently it had been Sacco’s misfortune to sign on with a software company that vaingloriously decided to compete with some arcane pop-up blocking service provided by Microsoft. The technical details were beyond Eugenie’s grasp, or interest, but she had no difficulty understanding the reason for Sacco’s consumptive bitterness. At one point the young man had been worth approximately two million dollars on paper, a figure reduced to bus change by his firm’s brief skirmish with Sir William Gates.

Sacco’s sorrowful tale was related from the depths of Eugenie’s claw-footed tub, where he’d retreated morosely after a late lunch at which he’d refused wine, beer and several choices of hard liquor. Eugenie was perturbed to see he had no intention of relaxing, not even for a fifteen-minute hump on the sofa. Sacco was obsessed, and nothing was more tedious than a man with an obsession.

“It’s getting late,” Eugenie hinted.

“They talk about free enterprise but in America it’s a myth. They talk about a level playing field, ha! It’s tilted sideways,” Sacco declared, “so that every last penny rolls into Bill Gates’s pocket. That four-eyed fucker’s wired himself a monopoly over the whole damn universe!”

He arose, dripping and agitated. “Where’s your PC? I’ll prove it to you, Genie.”

“I don’t have a PC,” she said.

Sacco looked mortified. “You aren’t serious?”

“Listen, sport, you want to do it or not? Because I need to get ready for work.”

She’d had her hopes up, having persuaded Sacco first to admit that he was a heterosexual, and then to visit her apartment. It was the inaugural step of her commitment to refocus on unmarried men.

Yet, appraising the bony, mirthless figure in her bathroom, Eugenie Fonda thought: Am I hard up or what?

Sacco said, “You don’t give a damn what they did to me, do you?”

Eugenie tossed him a towel. “Hey. Sometimes life is a shit-flavored Popsicle.”

“Don’t you at least want to hear about the lawsuit, and how they paid off the judge with a free laptop and lifetime DSL?”

“Not really.”

Sacco mulled over this information, then stepped purposefully out of the tub. “Well, I suppose we could try having sex,” he said.

Try? thought Eugenie.

“Lord, I wouldn’t want you to damage yourself,” she said. So much for the quiet, brooding types.

“No, Genie, it’ll be great,” Sacco said.

She doubted that. “Why don’t you go wait for me on the couch.”

“How about the bed?”

“It’s broken. Don’t ask.” Eugenie nudged him out the door, removed the pearl stud from her tongue and dashed cold water on her face. She peeled down to her underwear, but that was as far as she could go.