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failed to bond with Yancy despite his earnest efforts. Usually dogs adored him so he was glad to see this one go, though not so much his wife.
    For consolation he bought a secondhand Hell’s Bay skiff with a ninety-horse outboard. He still had it, and after his dispiriting sit-down with the sheriff he spent the afternoon poling down the oceanside flats. The tide was all wrong but Yancy didn’t care. A light sea breeze nudged the boat across crystal shallows, past eagle rays and lemon sharks and an ancient loggerhead turtle, half-blind and thorned with barnacles. It was a perfect afternoon, though he didn’t cast at a single fish.
    When Yancy returned home he saw a cream-colored Suburban parked in front of the soon-to-be mansion next door. A well-dressed man, stumpy in stature, stood in the future portico. He was slapping at bugs and speaking with agitation into a cell phone. Yancy recognized him as the owner.
    The man, whose name was Evan Shook, soon came to the fence. “Excuse me,” he said.
    Yancy was hosing the salt rime off his boat. He nodded in a false neighborly way.
    “There’s a dead raccoon in my house,” Evan Shook reported with gravity.
    “Not good,” Yancy said.
    “It’s huge and it’s starting to rot.”
    Yancy winced sympathetically.
    “Could you help me dump it somewhere? I’ve got people on their way to look at the place. They flew all the way from Dallas.”
    “Did you call Animal Control?” Yancy asked.
    “Lazy pricks, they won’t come out here till tomorrow. I could seriously use a hand.”
    Yancy shut off the hose. “Here’s the thing. It’s really bad luck to disturb a dead animal, and I can’t afford any more of that.”
    Evan Shook frowned. “Bad luck? Come on.”
    “Like a Gypsy curse, which is not what I need at the moment. But you can borrow my shovel.”
    “The damn thing reeks to high hell!”
    Yancy changed the subject. “That’s quite the Taj Mahal you’re building.”
    “Seven thousand square feet. Tallest house on the island.”
    “I can believe it.”
    “You know anybody who might be looking to buy, now’s the time to go big!” Up close, Evan Shook’s cheekbones appeared to have been buffed with a shammy. When a black Town Car rolled up to the cul-de-sac, he said, “Oh shit.”
    The driver opened the rear door and out came an older couple, ruddy and squinting. Evan Shook hurried to intercept them.
    Yancy wiped down the skiff and went inside. The Barbancourt was gone so he poured himself a Captain and Coke. He wasn’t in the practice of collecting roadkill but he’d spotted the misfortunate raccoon that morning along Key Deer Boulevard. Why leave it for the birds?
    From the refrigerator he took a package of hamburger patties and two ripe tomatoes, which he placed on the counter. He turned down the AC, cranked up Little Feat on the stereo and looked out the kitchen window.
    Next door, Evan Shook was attempting to herd the perplexed Texans back to their Town Car. Apparently the tallest house on Big Pine was not being shown today.

Four
    Yancy received his first bribe offer at a tin-roofed seafood joint on Stock Island called Stoney’s Crab Palace, where he had documented seventeen serious health violations, including mouse droppings, rat droppings, chicken droppings, a tick nursery, open vats of decomposing shrimp, lobsters dating back to the first Bush presidency and, on a tray of baked oysters, a soggy condom.
    The owner’s name was Brennan. He was slicing plantains when Yancy delivered the feared verdict: “I’ve got to shut you down.”
    “A hundred bucks says you won’t.”
    “Jesus, is that blood on your knife?”
    “Okay, two hundred bucks,” said Brennan.
    “Why aren’t you wearing gloves?” Yancy asked.
    Brennan continued slicing. “Nilsson never gave me no trouble. He ate here all the time.”
    “And died of hepatitis.”
    “He ate for free. That was our deal. Six years, never once did he step foot in my kitchen. Nilsson was a good