She answered the door without blinking, as if I were a vacuum cleaner salesman or a Jehovah Witness.

"Well?" I managed to grunt.

"Well, well." She eyed me suspiciously, not apprehensively or warily. Then her lips formed a hint of a smile. "Please, come in." She turned, leaving the door open, and walked slowly to the living room.

I stood on her welcome mat and started to sweat. Deja vu. I knew when she reached her desk, she'd open the drawer, pull out the gun, and shoot me again. What was I doing here? I was no Lew Archer.

She reached the desk and turned. "Well?" she repeated, cocking her head, eyes fixed dead on mine.

I wiped my brow with the sleeve of my jacket and took three steps toward her.

"Close the door," she ordered. I obeyed.

"Come in and have a seat." She pointed to the couch. "I'm not going to bite."

Sweat poured down my cheeks, and I wiped my brow again.

"Let me fix you a drink. Bourbon and water?" I nodded. "I'll be right back," she said, then disappeared into the adjoining room.

I breathed a deep sigh of relief. She hadn't shot me. No, she couldn't possibly shoot me again, I rationalized. If she wanted me out of the way, she would have testified at my trial. But why did she shoot me in the first place? No, she wouldn't shoot me again. The cops would get her for sure. But she was a cold-blooded murderer. She killed her own sister. Or did she?

I sat down on the couch and waited, feeling the dampness of my clothes, realizing that I had stopped sweating.

"You look different. Much better," she said as she handed me the drink, waiting for a response. I held the drink in both hands, staring at the amber liquid, wondering if it were poisoned.

"Well," she finally said with some authority, placing her palms on her knees, and leaned forward. "I don't suppose you'd be interested in a job?"

I raised my eyes and examined her humorless face. She was dead serious, all right. What kind of game was she playing? Could I have been wrong about her all along? No, she shot me. That was a fact. She killed her sister. That was ... almost a fact.

"I figured it was the least I could do, considering our unfortunate misunderstanding. I mean accident." She took a long pull from her tall drink. "Since you are out of work..." she paused and looked intently at me. I squirmed. "I thought the offer," she continued, "would be a sign of no hard feelings. Besides, you'll like where I'm sending you. Interested?"

Interested! Yeah, I thought, I'm interested in seeing you in jail. I stared at my drink, eventually taking a large gulp. It was strong and good.

"Well?"

Well, what's the use? I sighed and took another swallow. If I said no, where would it leave me? How would I get enough information on her to put her away? If I stayed on the case, I had to know a lot more about Sara.

"What do you have in mind?" I asked, hating part of myself for giving in.

"St. Thomas," she said. "Ever been there?"

I shook my head. I didn't even know where it was.

"U.S. Virgin Islands, the Caribbean. Most beautiful beaches in the world. Want to go?" Her smile was set somewhere between a smirk and a laugh.

"What is it that you want me to do?" I answered, practically choking on my words.

"Something very simple, actually. I own a house and a two bedroom condo there. Harvey Caliban, a real estate agent, is handling the properties for me. They should be renting for $1400 and $1200 a month. I last heard from him two months ago, and he said the rental market had collapsed, explaining why they sat empty for three months. Then he disappeared. His phone's been disconnected. In short, I'm out $13,000. I don't want to lose any more money. I can't believe that the places couldn't be rented. I want you to fly down there and find out what happened. I'll pay you $50 a day plus expenses."

"I get $200 a day plus expenses," I quickly pointed out.

She laughed. "Wilcox, I'm sending you to paradise, an all expense paid vacation, for just a little investigating. Fifty a day. Take it or leave it."

I finished my drink and started for the door, not having the slightest faith that my bluff would work. I needed her a lot more than she needed me. Where was I to go? I had no job, very little money, and less opportunity. Besides, I had to find out more about Sara and about Lauren. No, I wanted to forget about Lauren. Concentrate upon bringing Sara to justice, I told myself.

I opened the door, and she still hadn't said anything.

I turned to her, "OK."

She smirked, reached into her purse, and pulled out two one hundred dollar bills. "Here's an advance," she said waving them at me. "I think the first thing you should do is buy some clothes which fit. You can catch the 9:00 a.m. American flight tomorrow. Pick up your ticket at the counter. I'll make reservations at the Beau Geste Guest House for you."

I sauntered over to her, trying to return her smirk. Holding my pants up with one hand, I snapped the bills from her with the other. Without a word, I left.

"Happy hunting," she chimed to my back.

The three connecting flights served a breakfast and two lunches, and I ate them all. Of course, when you're confined to a small seat practically the whole day, you look forward to something to do. I remembered the uneaten Whoppers on my dresser which I trashed the night before. My appetite returned. Maybe I was getting back to my old self. Maybe things were beginning to fit.

When I stepped off the plane in St. Thomas, I knew I made a mistake buying the clothes I did. My new gray polyester pants immediately stuck to my legs; the pink and white flowered no-iron shirt stuck to my back. Thank God my feet didn't shrink. My wingtips were good as gold, but my feet were getting hotter by the minute.

I walked through a narrow tin-roofed walkway into an old World War II hangar which served as a terminal. A friendly old lady greeted me with a free rum punch, wishing me a good stay. Maybe I would like this place. Maybe I would like myself in this place, I thought. At the far end of the hangar was the baggage check. I got my suitcase and went outside to hail a cab. The sun was so bright that I went back inside to buy a pair of sunglasses and a hat. These I would list as expenses.

Getting a taxi to the Beau Geste was no easy matter. The cab drivers knew where it was--that wasn't the problem--but they wanted more than one fare to make the trip worthwhile. I stood in the sun and waited. And sweated.

A half-hour later, I and two others were on our way to town, Charlotte Amalie. I noticed first thing how everyone drove the wrong way, on the left, and much too fast. I felt my second lunch rumbling.

Charlotte Amalie was a-swarm with people jamming the narrow streets, bringing traffic practically to a standstill.

"Cruise ships in," the taxi driver announced. We all sagely nodded.

Somewhere in the middle of town, the driver took a side street which soon became a hill, then an ascent so steep that I didn't believe goats could scale it. Higher and higher we went, and I was surprised to see goats actually crossing the road. The driver honked them aside, accelerated sharply up a cliff, and abruptly stopped.

"Beau Geste. Five dollar, please," he said with a smile.

I reached into my pocket, and my hand stuck. Sweat ran freely down my face. I finally managed to hand him a moist five dollar bill. He left with the other two passengers, going farther up the hill. Where were they going, I thought. To heaven?

Before me were four flights of stairs leading to a sign which said 'OFFICE'. I sensed my defeat and sat on the bottom step. A rooster, chest puffed, strutted across the street eyeing me.

"Mr. Wilcox, Mr. Wilcox! Is that you?"

I looked up. From the fourth floor balcony, a woman's Asian face peered down. "Mr. Wilcox, is that you?" she repeated. I nodded.

To my good fortune, she came down with a key to my room, located on the first floor. As she opened the door, a blast of heat shot out. I checked it out; there wasn't much to see in the closet-sized space: one bed, one dresser, one chair, no nightstand, and no lamp.

"No air conditioning, huh?"

"That's eight dollars a night extra," she said as she began to open the louvers, letting in a warm breeze. "Your boss asked for this room. Paid for four nights. Much better now, yes, with the breeze?"

I grunted.

"You'll feel better after a shower. Then come upstairs. It's very cool and breezy. Best view in town. And we have beer and sandwiches."

After my shower, I still sweated. As soon as I put on a clean pair of blue polyester pants and a blue and white Dacron shirt, they became damp. I had to get different clothes. Something tropical, I thought. Something more suited to a private eye. What was it Rick wore in Casablanca? I couldn't remember. I did remember, though, what the fat man wore in The Maltese Falcon. Maybe that. But I wasn't a fat man anymore. Well, not really a fat man.

The walk up to the terrace was as bad as I expected. I felt completely winded by the second flight of steps and practically had to crawl up the last one. The view of the harbor and town, looked magnificent, and the breeze was strong. I looked at the deep blue sky turn slowly black as I ate a pastrami on rye and drank cold beer. The lights of the town below winked, and the cruise ships, heading for some distant port, disappeared slowly into the horizon. It was all quite mesmerizing and peaceful. After four beers, I was drowsy enough to call it a day.

In my room, I fell asleep immediately, only to wake a blink later to the crowing of a rooster. My bed was drenched with sweat, and the room was quite dark. I turned on the light and looked at my watch. It read 3:07. Must be something wrong with the roosters down here, I thought. They're supposed to crow at dawn. I took another cold shower, lay down on the already wet bed without drying myself, and stared at the ceiling as the rooster crowed and crowed.

What am I doing here, I began to think. What kind of fool am I? It's stupid to think that I'm a private detective, that I can solve a case, that I can get the better of Sara Wright. What am I doing here? What was it the hospital social worker said? Male menopause? For fifty-five years, nothing in my life happened. Everything just was. Everything fit. For every debit there was a corresponding credit. I was content as a bookkeeper. That's what I was born for. Or was it? I never even thought of retirement. Not really, anyway. And that lasted only for a moment or two last year.

I tossed in the bed, trying to get comfortable, wishing for sleep. I didn't want to think anymore. Who was it that said that three o'clock in the morning was the dark night of the soul? I wished that damn rooster would shut up. What was it about the rooster crowing when St. Peter was lying or something?

I must have dozed because the morning light surprised me. I felt awful, like someone kept dragging me through puddles all night. It was no snap getting out of bed and dressed. The heat seemed to be pushing me back, but I managed to get outside. There a startlingly clear day and a cool breeze met me. I decided to walk down the mountain and find a rental car agency. I had to do something; it might as well be what I was hired to do.

Walking down hill was easy. The problem came when I reached level ground. After two blocks, I was soaking wet. At this rate, I'd never see two hundred pounds again. Hell, I'd probably slip down to a hundred, maybe even wisp away to nothing. At least people weren't staring at me anymore. I guess I looked like a normal short person, maybe a little fat. The trick was to convince myself the sudden weight loss was a perfect disguise. What did it matter that I no longer recognized myself?

Renting a car was no problem, but the man took one look at me and chuckled. "You better have a wife who is a nurse," he said, "because you will surely get sick."

I drove to Palm Passage on the wrong side of the road like everybody else. There I hoped to find Harvey Caliban and get the matter of the house rentals cleared up.

The directory listed his office as 27B, which was easy enough to find. What I didn't find, though, was Caliban, or anyone else for that matter. The office, as far as I could make out through the dirty window was small and had apparently been vacant for some time. Great.

Sitting down in the courtyard to plan my next move, I remembered I hadn't eaten any breakfast. I asked a nearby vendor where to find good but cheap. He said Johnny Cake. I tried one. It was my kind of meal, at least the kind of meal I loved when I knew who I was. Heavy dough shaped like a saucer and served hot. I ordered four more of them, but only managed to eat two. I was definitely changing. Maybe I ought to just let it happen.

Sara had given me the addresses of the properties she owned. My next step should probably be to see if, in fact, they were unoccupied. I studied the map the car rental agency gave me. The house was on Ridge Road, which seemed about as far away from where I sat as possible. Way out on the eastern tip of the island in a section called Red Hook. According to the map, the road there seemed pretty easy to follow.

I wasn't prepared for the mountains and the traffic. Forty minutes and eight miles later, I arrived in Red Hook asking directions to Ridge Road. "Follow the signs to Secret Harbour and you can't miss it," a grocery clerk told me.

I followed the signs but found only Secret Harbour, so I went back to Red Hook and followed the signs again. And again. No Ridge Road. I pulled into Secret Harbour and parked. Maybe someone there could tell me. When no one answered the bell in the office, I walked to the beach. It was easy to see why this was called paradise. The sand white, deep, soft, and clean. The calm water looked unbelievably clear. In the distance it was the deepest blue I had ever seen. Several sailing ships gently rocked at anchor a short way out, and the mountains rose nearby. There were also a few mountainous islands not too far away. The cool breeze felt stiff and totally refreshing. When it gusted against my wet shirt, I got chilled, so I removed my shirt. I was embarrassed, but glad there were not too many people on the beach.

Two teenage girls were walking toward me, one a short blonde and the other a tall brunette.

"Don't you think my stomach is too fat? Look at it; it's disgusting! It's all my mother's fault. Her stomach is like that. God, I can't stand it," the blonde said. I looked at her pencil thin waist.

"You're ridiculous," the brunette said.

"No, no, you don't understand..." the blonde continued but stopped when she noticed me watching her.

"Excuse me, girls, can you tell me how to get to Ridge Road?"

"Oh, sure," the brunette said. "When you go out of the parking lot, keep straight. That's Ridge Road."

"No, it's not," the blonde interrupted. "You got to make a right. It curves right."

"It's the same road, Chrissy," the other one said.

"Well, I'm sorry. I can't help it if you're wrong," the blonde argued. "I know I'm right."

"Thanks, girls, you've been a big help," I said as I turned toward the parking lot. I either go straight or go right, which probably means that Ridge Road is a left turn.

"Did you see his boobs," I heard one of them say behind me. It must have been the blonde. "And his shoes!" And then giggles. What was wrong with my shoes?

Ridge Road was straight up from the parking lot. I didn't know how I missed it. The sign was as plain as day. The road itself ran a half mile long with houses only on one side of it.

I found Sara's house without any difficulty, but when I pulled into the driveway, I thought I was at another dead end. No cars were parked, and no sounds came from within. I knocked on the door. Loud barking followed by a vicious growl greeted me from the other side. Through the window, I caught a glimpse of a big black dog with one eye, teeth bared, jumping at the door. A house definitely occupied, and one I had no intention of breaking into. I decided to wait at a safe distance for the occupants to return. Maybe they could tell me how to reach Caliban.

I drove back to the intersection and parked where I could watch the house. The sun grew more intense, and the breeze quit. In no time I had sweated a puddle.

One hour passed, then another. I must have been losing gallons of liquid. More from the instinct of self-preservation than anything else, I decided to go to Secret Harbour, deposit my rapidly dehydrating body at the beach bar, and have a beer.

The beer was cold, satisfying, and a slight breeze stirred. I had another beer. And another. There was no need, really, being in the hot sun, I told myself. I could always drive by the house to see if a car was parked. Besides, I was in "America's Paradise," so why not enjoy it. The view was spectacular, especially the women. One tanned, well-oiled body came up to the bar twice in about a half-hour to get a drink. When she turned to walk back to the beach, I couldn't believe it. Her bikini bottom was nothing but a string in back. Her firm, tan cheeks jiggled ever so slightly, and I caught myself thinking about sex for the first time in years. I watched her walk the length of the beach. What chance would a fat, old man like me have with someone like that, I thought. Then I remembered I wasn't fat anymore. I began to wonder. Some women like older men, especially if they're rich. The trick was in getting them to believe I was rich. Could I do it? Well.... my thoughts surprised me. And scared me, too. What came over me? I ordered another beer.

When I tried to get up to go the men's room, I stumbled off the bar stool. So that was it. I simply had too much to drink. That and the tropic air must have made me have those weird thoughts. Sex? Come on. That was at least a lifetime ago. It was time to pay my tab and get back to work.

A car was parked in the driveway, and the house lights were on. I parked, then knocked loudly at the door.

"Yeah?" a large, dark man asked as he opened the door. Behind him, the dog kept barking. The man made no move to quiet him.

"Harvey Caliban?" I asked, acting as confident as a fifty-five year old private eye on his second case could. Obviously, my ingratiating smile didn't take. He only stared at me. "I'm looking for Harvey Caliban," I announced and considered twitching my mouth the way Bogart did in all those old movies.

"No such man here," he said abruptly and closed the door.

I stared at the closed door dumbfounded. The dog continued to bark loudly. Forget about Archer and Bogart, I told myself. Go back to the bar and make a plan.

After ordering a beer, I asked to see a menu. At a glance, I could tell that I'd never gain weight at island prices. This was another one of Sara's tricks. She said that she would pay expenses, but she set a limit on meals. Three dollars for breakfast, five dollars for lunch, and eight dollars for dinner. I thought that reasonable at the time. The cheapest entree here was spaghetti and that was $12.95. And Sara certainly knew what the price of a meal was on island. What the hell, I thought, a man's got to eat. I ordered the spaghetti.

On a full stomach, I was still without a plan. I always felt better after eating; it was my prime thinking time. This time was different. The only idea occurring to me was to follow the man who lived in the house, and I didn't like it. I had another beer, but couldn't come up with anything better. Reluctantly, I went back to Ridge Road, hoping the man would soon leave. I parked off the road, practically in the bush and waited. My watch read 8:45.

By 10:30, I was almost asleep. I even may have dozed without knowing it, so I got out of the car and walked toward the house. The car still sat in the driveway, and only one light was on. Maybe the man had gone to bed, which is what I should have done.

On the way back to my car, I stopped in the bush to urinate. The nearby scurrying of a large animal jolted me, and in the rush to finish, I drenched both pants legs.

Sitting behind the wheel, I breathed a sigh of relief. My immediate problem, however, was whether or not to remove my pants. Comfort won out over embarrassment as I spread them out in the back seat to dry. I opened all the car windows to help that process along. Outside, the animal noises grew louder and more menacing. Then the mosquitoes came. By the time I was able to close all the windows, I had more bites than an island dog. I only hoped that the ones still inside the car had their fill. I started to sweat again. I looked at my watch. Only 11:07. It was going to be a long night.

Soon I fell asleep and dreamt of giant lizards taking large bites of my thighs. Blood ran down my legs in torrents and puddled in my shoes. I woke up in sweat, to find only an hour had passed. The dreams and awakenings repeated until dawn.

At 7:15, the man left, heading in the direction of town. I followed, eyes bleary, tongue swollen. What I wouldn't do for a gallon of coffee!

After two miles, he made a sharp turn into the Red Hook Shopping Center, parked, and entered the Three Virgins Cafe where he took a seat near the entrance. A waitress brought him a cup of coffee. From my car, I stared with envy. If only I waited to confront him--he would recognize me if I entered the cafe--I would be drinking coffee now. When his breakfast of hotcakes, eggs, and sausage came, I was crazy with hunger. Luckily, the market nearby just opened. I dashed out of the car without realizing I still had no pants on. A woman walking by abruptly stopped and stared. This was the stuff of my childhood nightmares. I jumped back into the car, and as I fumbled to get my pants on, I accidentally sounded the horn. Another woman saw me and laughed before she entered the market. It was little consolation that my pants were almost dry.

In the market, I bought the largest jar of peanut butter they had, a loaf of bread, extra-dry spray deodorant, a toothbrush, and--maybe things would get better--two large cups of freshly brewed coffee.

In the car, I drank some coffee as I sprayed my pants legs. Then I brushed my teeth, using the coffee as a paste and rinse. It was delicious.

As I was about to make a massive peanut butter sandwich, my man was joined by a woman, a tall West Indian who wore enough gold to anchor a ship. She also carried a purse as big as a suitcase, which she placed alongside the man. Shortly after the waitress brought her a cup of coffee, the man reached inside his sports jacket, withdrew an envelope and handed it to her. She placed it inside a newspaper, took a sip of coffee, put the paper under her arm and left, leaving the purse. She got into a fairly new BMW. I was tempted to follow her but decided to stay with the man.

Soon another woman joined him. Their discussion was more animated, and the woman--blonde, about thirty, good looking, and no jewelry--drank tea, wrapping and unwrapping the tea bag around her spoon as she talked. Quite suddenly, the man left, taking the check to the counter, paying the bill. The big purse remained at the table. It had to contain drugs. What else could it be? I knew Sara must be connected to this. Dealing drugs carried mandatory sentences. If only I could get evidence to link that purse to Sara, I'd have my revenge, and justice would be served.

The blonde signaled the waitress, said something, and then the waitress returned with a newspaper and another cup of tea.

It was time for me to make a move. I looked in the rear view mirror, wiped off traces of peanut butter from my cheek and chin, which I had been scooping out of the jar while I watched, and tried to smooth down a cowlick of hair. There was nothing I could do about shaving.

"Nice morning," I said nonchalantly as I sat down next to her. Already I began sweating and took a hanky from my back pocket to wipe my brow. It reeked of deodorant. Eyeing me, she seemed partly suspicious, partly amused. Her blue eyes sparkled in the morning light. She smiled but didn't say anything.

"Yeah, Caliban thought it a good idea that I stick close to you and the bundle." I pointed to the purse and leaned toward it, trying to peek in. "Protection's my game," I added.

She hesitated and then barked a short laugh. I squirmed in my chair and felt sweat run down the side of my face. I reached again for my hanky, wiped, and blew my nose.

"Damn allergies," I muttered.

She stared at me for a moment and then laughed again. I squirmed even more. Another mistake, I thought. I should have followed the man.

"I don't know who you are, but..." she laughed again, "you got to get a better line. Besides, aren't you a little old for a morning pick-up?" She crossed her legs--they were tanned, muscular, but shapely--and rhythmically rocked her right foot. It was quite sensual, and I caught myself staring at her legs, captivated by their motion. This wasn't like me at all. I tried to look away.

"Anyway," she said, "how do you know Caliban?"

Her question surprised me, and I suspected she knew I had been looking at her in less than a professional, detached way.

"Well, I, I..." The waitress came to our table just in time. "I'll have a coffee, ma'am." The momentary reprieve didn't help any. I still didn't have any idea of what to say. I pulled my hanky out again and blew two, three, four times. Still no idea.

"You keep that up, you won't have any brains left," she said. "Well? How do you know Caliban?"

I looked at her straight on; her face seemed to draw me in. Exasperated, I decided to tell her the truth.

"I don't know Caliban. It's my job to find him." I waited for a reaction. Nothing. I took out a cigarette and lit it, thinking of Bogart in The Maltese Falcon. "I'm a private detective," I said, exhaling the smoke.

She laughed again, this time longer and more freely.

"What do you keep finding that's so damn funny?" I crushed out my cigarette.

"Come on, the truth now," she teased, still smiling.

"I am telling you the truth, goddammit. I am a private detective, hired by a client, a lawyer as a matter of fact, in the States, to find Harvey Caliban and question him about the management of some rental properties that my client owns. She, uh, I mean, my client wants to know why the properties have been vacant the past six months. She, damn, I mean my client has been losing money. I'm here to find out why!" You old fool, I thought, as I blew my nose.

"You're cute," she said.

I felt myself blush. The waitress came with my coffee. I took a large swallow and immediately regretted it. It wasn't coffee, it was liquid fire.

"OK, let's say I believe you." Mischief shone in her eyes. "If I take you to Caliban, what's in it for me?"

"Shit, ah..." I paused, scratching my brow. "Look, I don't have expense money for this kind of thing and hardly any of my own cash. Jesus, I'm only making fifty bucks a day on this damn job. Give me a break, will ya? I'll give you what I can. What will you take?"

She leaned toward me, devilishly smiling and pinched my arm. "Maybe flesh," she said and puckered her lips.

I got up to leave. I was a joke, a bad penny, a used hanky, a blown bag. What a fool!

"Don't go," she cooed. "Maybe we can work this out."

I was out the door before she finished. I slammed the car door behind me and fumed, pounding the steering wheel with the palm of my hand until it hurt, glowering in her direction. She opened the newspaper and read.

Ten minutes later, she left with purse in hand, stopped at the entrance, shielded her eyes from the sun, and looked across the parking lot until she spotted me. She blew me a kiss and then walked to a red Renault. I pounded my other palm against the steering wheel.

When she pulled out of the shopping center, I was right on her tail. She looked in the rear view mirror and waved. I turned the radio on full blast to drown out my thoughts and listened to some idiotic song that had only one line, "I didn't mean to turn you on." Jesus.

She drove pretty fast, and I became nervous trying to keep up with her on the winding, pot-holed mountain road. I believed she headed for town, but what did I know? I finally lost her at the crest of a hill so steep I thought my rental would stop going forward and roll back down.

I took the descent with a little too much abandon and practically ran off the mountain. A mile later, still on the mountain side, I was stopped dead in traffic. There were at least twenty cars in front of me, none of them a red Renault. She must have turned off.

I pulled in near a dumpster and attempted to turn around but banged it with my rear bumper. A rooster squawked and leaped out of the garbage, wings fluttering, and landing on the hood of my car. I almost had a heart attack. Damn roosters. It squawked once more and jumped down.

Headed back the way I came, I soon approached an intersection I hadn't noticed before. Left or right? Right, I decided and followed a sign pointing to the Lime Tree Beach Hotel and Condominiums. Entering the grounds, I coasted. No red Renault in Visitor's Parking, or on the other side of the tennis courts. I turned on to a road labeled, Private--Owners and Guests Only, and spotted the car about fifty yards away. I parked and waited.

Fifteen minutes later, I walked to the Renault. It was unlocked and so was the glove compartment. The registration said that the owner was Diane Hunter.

"You don't give up easy, do you?" Her voice startled me, and I bumped my head on the door frame as I jerked.

"Look, if you promise to stop following me, I'll meet you here, in the Green Cay Lounge, at eight tonight and give you some answers."

"OK," I said, rubbing my head. Following her led only to embarrassment. Besides, I needed a break from heavy detecting. "Promise?"

"Of course. I'm looking forward to it," she said, bright eyes smiling, and walked away, slightly rolling her hips. Nice hips, nice legs, nice tush. Maybe I'm not too old, I thought, but then looked at my sweat stained shirt and urine stained pants. Sure. Some chance I'd have with a woman like that.

I drove to a Dollar Discount store--I figured it was the island equivalent of a Sears--and bought a new pair of pants, two shirts, and a pair of swimming trunks. I had the rest of the day to kill, and it wasn't like I was getting paid by the hour with a boss standing over me. I went back to the Guest House, showered, shaved, brushed my teeth for real, and dressed in my new cotton clothes. I asked the owner how to get to the closest beach and she gave me directions to Lindberg Bay.

At the bath house there, I changed into my trunks, locked my clothes in the trunk of my car, grabbed a bed sheet I had taken from my room, and headed for the beach. I had a nagging feeling that I had forgotten something.

The sun was warm and soothing. It felt like heaven to stretch out prone. The breeze was steady, and there were hardly any people on the beach. Soon I fell happily, comfortably asleep.

"De man not dead, meson. Dat one sleepin', dat all," a voice somewhere from the sea was saying.

"No, no, he dead. Like dat one foun' right here las' week," another voice joined in.

"Look at he skin, meson. Ah tellin' ya, dead man dem don' sunburn. Dey all gray. Dis man red. Red like rooster comb."

I stirred.

"See, meson. Ah tell ya true."

I opened my eyes to see two men walk down the beach. I sat up with great effort. My back and legs felt like they were pressed with an iron, and it became painfully clear I'd forgotten sun block. I went into the water, but my skin only stung more. I then moved my sheet under the shade of a coconut palm and groaned. I must have slept for hours. And I was hungry.

A yellow truck was parked on the road behind me, and people were standing by it eating. I went to it and ordered something called a pate, spicy beef stuffed in a doughy shell shaped like a tart. It was quite good, and I ordered two more, and two beers. I spent much of rest of the day doing nothing more strenuous than watching the sea.

At eight o'clock, I walked into an empty Green Cay Lounge, hobbled with sunburn. The band was setting up, and I took a stool at the end of the large, horse shoe bar facing them and ordered a Beck's. A stuffed iguana mounted on the wall to my right seemed to focus its marble eye on me. It was unsettling. I remembered a similar creature in my dreams, which kept biting large chunks out of my thigh. I grew anxious, so I finished my beer fast and ordered another one. The band started to play to an audience of one--there were no other customers besides me--rich driving sounds, a happy rhythm.

By my fourth beer, only two people had entered, a white couple about my age. They sat at a table in the far corner, heads pressed close to each other's, the way you'd expect honeymooners to sit. About a hundred empty tables stretched between them and me.

"Hi there, big boy." Her voice sounded rich, musical, and the hairs on the back of my neck bristled with anticipation. I turned. Her perfume was intoxicating. Jasmine.

"Better late than never," I slurred and regretted having so much to drink.

"Wouldn't miss this for the world," she said. "Let's take a walk."

I called for the check and practically choked when it came. $22.50. No wonder the place was so deserted.

She walked slightly ahead of me, and I followed her down the hill, across a small foot bridge, and to a picnic table by a pond. The scent of her perfume seemed to be traveling throughout my body. We sat down.

The music from this distance still sounded distinct, yet much softer. An island couple sat at a nearby bench; a bottle of what I imagined to be rum rested alongside. They were in each other's arms. The brilliant stars seemed to be shining for lovers only. Maybe my brains had been baked by the sun, or maybe I had too much to drink, or maybe it was the intoxicating effect of Diane's perfume, but I yearned to put my arms around her, longed to kiss her lips.

"Harvey Caliban is dead," she said.

I sighed.

"You don't need to know how or why," she continued, "but he is dead. By the time you get back to the States, we'll no longer need the house. Best thing to do is to tell your client--she chuckled as she emphasized the word--that she'll need another agent. Your job was really quite simple, and now it's over. So..." she patted my hand, "you can go home now." She let her hand rest on mine.

I was getting hot, and it wasn't from the sunburn. I could get the goods on Sara some other time. As I leaned my face closer to hers, she stood up, and as I was about to take her into my arms, she turned and walked away. I couldn't believe it. What a fool I was!

"What was in the purse?" I almost shouted. My throat burned.

"Not your concern," she answered over her shoulder.

"Who was the man you met? And the woman who brought the purse?"

"Ditto." She quickened her pace. I followed.

"You're smuggling drugs, is that it!" I yelled.

She stopped and waited until I was alongside. "Look, there are other ways of dealing with you," she whispered. "You don't realize what a favor I'm doing you. Go home. This doesn't concern you."

I reached for her. She stepped back.

"I, I, ah, only wanted to, ah.... "I rubbed my hand through my hair. She turned and walked quickly away. I let her go.

Back at the picnic table, I lit a cigarette and blew smoke at the stars. What was I doing anyway? Falling in love with a woman half my age, and a criminal as well? And Sara. What about my revenge? Revenge hell! What about justice? I had to get a hold of myself. I had to solve this. What would Lew Archer do? What would my daughter think? My daughter? "No, no, Wilcox, you're getting crazy again," I said aloud and crushed my cigarette.

The way back to my car was dark, and at first I thought I tripped over a log, but on the way down something hit me, hit me hard, like a baseball bat on my back. I lost my breath as I felt my face scrape the rocky ground. Then a kick in my side. Then another. I passed out, but it must have been for only a few seconds because I heard voices.

"There was no need to do that," I heard her say. "I had him under control."

"A little going away present, that's all. Something to give Sara a message. That bitch. Where the hell she get off sending some bozo to check up on us!" He then kicked my face. I screamed. "Looks like he woke up," the man snorted. Then I felt a foot cracking my ribs. It wasn't anything at all like reading about it. I passed out, hoping that this was another of my bad dreams, praying that it was one, and that I would wake up ready to start another day in bookkeeping.