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!”
    Betty’s face was flushing to a dark red. So was mine. She slammed down her bottle. The sound was very loud in the small cabin.
    “Betty, for Christ’s sake, it’s not about money.”
    “Then take the fucking money!”
    “God damn it, can’t I just do you a  favor ?”
    “No! I don’t need your favors! Not from you, not from anybody!”
    I opened my mouth—and then, for once that miserable August, I did something smart. I closed it again. I took a long pull on my beer. I took a deep breath. “I need a favor from you.”
    She glared at me suspiciously. “What’s that?”
    “Key West is closing in on me. Everybody’s mad at me and I can’t concentrate. I need to get out of town for a few days.”
    “Billy—”
    “The thing is, I have to get away, think things through with no distractions. If there was any way in the world you could let me have a sailboat for a few days it would save my life.”
    “God damn it, Billy—”
    “I’ll pay whatever you think is fair.”
    “You son of a bitch—”
    In the end we settled on Betty paying expenses.

Chapter Four
    Early Monday morning we were at the gate of a big marina in Dinner Key, the small bay front area of Miami’s Coconut Grove. Yes—we. To my surprise, I had brought Nicky along; partly because I couldn’t pry him loose, and partly because I discovered I genuinely wanted company.
    When I invited him, he’d screeched out an “EE-hah!”, his version of what cowboys, the only  real Americans, sounded like.
    “Nicky, we’ll be gone three or four days, maybe more if the weather turns bad on us.”
    “Perfect, mate. Ab-so-fuckin’-lutely perfect!”
    He almost levitated with excitement. I couldn’t figure it out. “I didn’t think you’d be so happy to leave town,” I said.
    “Billy, old-sock-me-lad, I couldn’t be happier. The shop will run itself for a few days, and I am off to sea with a hearty yo-ho!”
    I looked at him, suddenly regretting the invitation. “Listen, if you’re going to turn all nautical on me—”
    He shook his head, winked. “No worries, chum. No Nelson at Trafalgar imitations. Just three days of cold beer, gentle breezes and working on a world class tan. Half a mo’ while I pack!”
    And he raced around his house and grabbed a canvas sport bag, a black plastic box, and two cases of beer.
    We took the bus up to Miami and got a cab for the hop to Dinner Key, Nicky wide-eyed at the scenery. I was looking a little hard at Miami myself. I hadn’t been there for a few years and there had been some changes.
    For starters, there were still signs of hurricane damage. Last season, a big one had whipped through the Dinner Key boat basin with a 16-foot tidal surge. It had taken thousands of boats moored there and dumped them inland in great untidy heaps.
    Many of the heaps were still there a year later. It was startling to see the prow of a 45-foot trawler married to a 50-foot sailboat, or a small Donzi speedboat with a mast coming up through the hatch.
    Half a giant cabin cruiser, Italian built, lay on one side. The other half was completely gone, whirled away to Texas by the storm. All around it lay a tangle of cable, cleats, deck chairs, coolers, marine toilets, cushions, bent engine parts, mangled fishing gear, half a fire extinguisher—all the imaginable chunks of every kind of boat, all smashed, twisted, bent double or shattered, laying in their piles as if it was a maniac’s hardware store.
    “Holy shit, mate,” Nicky breathed. Australians don’t like to let on that they’re impressed, but the sight of this billion-dollar trash heap was too much for Nicky.
    “And then some,” I told him. I moved past the luxury dump and out into the boatyard. Nicky followed, his head swiveling among the busted miracles.
    We went through the gate and found Betty’s boat, Sligo, a French-built 42-footer, over beside the lift. The storm had picked her up and shoved a dock piling through her side, just behind the forward cabin.