“I think so.”

“It don’t sound nuts to you?”

“No.” George patted the pocket containing his wallet. “These kids of yours are going on a trip.”

Mix was pleased.

“Yeah? Where?”

“Missouri.”

“Missouri? Well, I’ll be goddamned, that’s where I come from, St. Louis. Going on an airplane, even?”

“Absolutely.”

“Well, I’ll be goddamned.” Mix shook his head. “How’s that for a coincidence, me coming from Missouri and my money going to Missouri. On a plane, too. I never been on a plane.”

“I’ve gotta shove off now, Mix.”

“What’s your hurry?”

“Well, the plane’s leaving pretty soon and the kids here don’t want to miss it. They’re raising hell in my pocket.”

Mix threw back his head and roared. As soon as George left Mix tried to tell a couple of dockhands about the joke, but even though he explained it right from the beginning and told them how funny it was, they didn’t laugh.

George walked carefully across the wharf toward the Beachcomber. The money in his pocket felt heavy and he had half a notion to give it back to Mix, but he couldn’t think of any logical explanation to offer Hazel: Listen, Hazel, I’ve got a funny feeling about this money, we shouldn’t mess with it, I’ve got a hunch...

Although it was not yet nine o’clock the Beachcomber was open and Willie was behind the bar straining a martini for the lone customer, an elderly man wearing rimless spectacles and a wrinkled tuxedo.

Neither Willie nor the man paid any attention to George. They were both intent on the work in progress like alchemists about to test the results of a new formula.

“Here you are,” Willie said. “Very dry, like you asked for, Judge.”

“I did not say very dry. My exact words were very, very dry. Subtle difference there, lad.”

“Yes sir, but a martini can only get so dry. When it gets drier, it’s straight gin.”

“Mere rhetoric. A splitting of the hair of the dog that bit me.” Judge Bowridge laughed softly to himself. “You forgot the olives, lad. Three, if you please, on the side.”

“Yes sir.”

“One should never drink without eating. I learned that at my mother’s knee. Anton, she said, Anton, promise me by your dear dead father’s mustache, that you will never drink a martini without olives on the side. I have never violated that sacred trust.”

He picked up the first olive, slipped it off the toothpick and swallowed it whole like an aspirin. It made a little squeaking noise as it passed down his throat.

“Delicious,” he said.

Willie went down to the other end of the counter where George was changing into his white coat. He meant to say something unpleasant and cutting to George for running out on the business the night before but he was afraid to. Instead, he glanced back sourly at Bowridge. “He was sitting on the steps outside when I opened up. I had to let him in.”

“How’d he get here?”

“God knows. His car’s not around.”

“I’ll take care of him.” George took Willie’s place behind the bar. “Good morning, Judge.”

“Oh, there you are, Anderson. I was inquiring after your health just a moment ago. Willie informs me you keep well.”

“Well enough.”

“I am delighted to hear it. There are altogether too many half-dead people running around these days.”

“You been up all night, Judge?”

Bowridge took off his spectacles and rubbed them thoughtfully on his coat sleeve. “Now that you mention it, I don’t seem to recall going to bed. I was at a party.”

“The party still going on?”

“Oh, no, no, no. It wasn’t that type of party. It was, frankly, a lugubrious affair. Weak drinks and dull women. Bad combination. I tried to help matters by singing a few songs. Do you happen to know ‘Chewy Chewy’?”

“Not offhand.”

“A very spirited number. Like this.” He snapped his fingers in time to an invisible orchestra. “Gordon Foster and I perfected a duet. You know Foster.”

“Not personally. Hazel’s mentioned him to me.”

“An interesting fellow. Fine tenor voice, but unable to hold his liquor. The trouble with Foster is that he doesn’t eat when he drinks.” As if to set a good example, Bowridge swallowed the remaining two olives, pits and all, as he had the first. “How is Hazel?”

“Fine. I expect her here any minute.”

“Ah. In what capacity?”

“Not what you’re thinking,” George said dryly.

“I’ve been acquainted with Hazel for a great many years.”

“I know that.”

“She’s a remarkable woman.”

“I know that, too.”

“Frankly, Anderson — you don’t mind if I speak frankly?”

“No.”

“Well then, frankly, I never wanted to sign those divorce papers, Anderson, no, I did not. Oh, I signed them all right, but my heart wasn’t in it. I kept putting it off until it was time to go home. My secretary said, you haven’t signed these papers yet, and I said, goddamn it, I won’t sign them, there’s no reason on earth why these two people shouldn’t stay married. And she said, you should have thought of that while court was in session, the case is over. And so it was. I signed the papers.”

George turned away, looking stubborn and a little resentful. “It was Hazel’s idea, not mine.”

“So it would seem.”

“So it was,” George said stiffly. “You want to know what happened? — the real thing, I mean, not what Hazel’s lawyer said in court.”

“I would be very interested.”

“Well, I was late getting home one Saturday night and Hazel was waiting up for me in the front room. I was just sitting there having a beer and some potato chips and telling her a few odd things that happened during the day, and suddenly she got up, walked over to me and said, ‘I’m getting damn good and tired of your boyish blubberings.’ Just like that. Out of a blue sky.”

“A most provocative remark. What did you do?”

“Finished my beer and potato chips and went to bed. What else? She was spoiling for a fight.”

“She may simply have wanted your attention.”

“She wanted a divorce, she got it,” George said. “Let’s forget it.”

“As you wish.” Bowridge finished his martini and pushed the empty glass toward George. “One more, very, very dry. And do not look at me askance. De gustibus non disputandum. De mortuis nil nisi bonum.”

“Maybe I’d better call you a cab.”

“You may call me a whole fleet of cabs if you like,” Bowridge said graciously. “It’s only fair to warn you, however, that I have no intention of leaving. I must wait for Hazel. Besides, I like it here. The sea air is very bracing. It makes me feel alive and nimble.”

He inhaled deeply and extravagantly, opening his mouth wide to receive the bracing air. But his ageing lungs were not accustomed to such largess; he began to cough, pressing both hands against his chest as if to ease its troubles. His face looked pale and withdrawn and he seemed suddenly to have lost interest in George and the martini and the bracing air, in everything but himself. The judge was as ignorant of his body as he was aware of his mind, and this periodic rebellion inside his chest mystified and frightened him. If the day was warm and bright, and his calendar easy, he jeered at the cough, it was nothing. But on a day with a crowded calendar and pellets of rain exploding on the tiled roof of the courtroom so violently he could hardly hear what was going on inside, the cough was death, it had come like the bailiff to take him away, and away he would go, down long corridors to a dark and single cell.

“Devilish thing — don’t know what — causes it — maybe — the olives — did the olives — have pits?”

“Yes.”

“That’s it then — the pits have — lodged somewhere — devilish — damn.”

He coughed for a full minute, and when he had finished he took off his spectacles, wiped the moisture out of his eyes with a handkerchief. His chest was a little sore and his throat raw, but, having convinced himself that the cause was nothing more serious than an unfortunate lodging of olive pits, he felt quite cheerful again; the bailiff and the dark cell were years and miles away, the cough was nothing, the pits, wherever they were, would dissolve. A very dry martini would no doubt assist in their dissolution.

The judge repeated his order and when the martini came he sipped it very slowly and gravely as if it were medicine which had been prescribed for him and which he had to take whether he liked it or not.

George went out to the telephone booth in the foyer and called a cab. Through the window in the top of the door he could see Hazel’s blue Chevy coming toward the Beachcomber, bouncing over the worn planks of the wharf like a jeep. With a familiar feeling of irritation he watched her as she tried to park. Back and forth she maneuvered, three times, four times, and when she had finished the Chevy was still a good four feet from the wharf railing and straddling two parking spaces.

He opened the door and crossed the parking area. Hazel was just getting out of the Chevy, panting a little from exertion. She hadn’t dressed up as she usually did when she came to the Beachcomber. Her hair was tied up in a scarf, and she wore faded blue jeans, a striped T-shirt which had once belonged to Harold and a pair of rhinestone-studded sunglasses which she had borrowed from Josephine since Josephine was too sunburned to go out today anyway.

She gave George a long direct stare as if challenging him to make any remarks about her costume or the way she’d parked the car.

George could never resist a challenge. “You’re going to leave it there?”

“I don’t see why not.”