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office on my way home, and sent it parcel post, thus robbing Uncle Sam of the first-class postage he would have required of me had I told him of the note inside. It’s hard to hold your own against the government, but I try.
    That evening as I was eating crackers and bluefish paté, the phone rang. It was Bernadette Orwell calling in a panic from Weststock.
    â€œI’m terribly, terribly sorry to interrupt you, but . . .”
    â€œRelax. I found your backpack.”
    â€œWhat? You did! Oh, thank you . . . !”
    â€œIt had fallen off the front porch. I got your addressfrom John Skye and sent everything to New Jersey. I didn’t know your Weststock address.”
    â€œOh! I just changed apartments . . . Well . . . Thank you! Thank you! My journal was inside . . . I’ve always kept a journal. Oh, I hope . . . You didn’t . . . Oh, dear . . .”
    â€œDon’t worry,” I said, “I don’t read other people’s journals. Only a real crumb would do a thing like that.”
    â€œOh! Well, thank you again. You have no idea how worried I’ve been . . .”
    â€œThink nothing of it,” I said. Bernadette was in Weststock and her cocaine and pills would soon be in New Jersey. Everybody has problems. One of mine was being a real crumb sometimes.

— 3 —
    I was wrapping smoked bluefish for my illegal markets when the phone rang. The Commonwealth of Massachusetts and the town of Edgartown insist that people who sell processed fish to restaurants and other purveyors of food should have very expensive and sanitary facilities to prepare that fish, but I prepare my smoked bluefish in my kitchen and smoke it in a smoker made out of an old refrigerator and electric stove parts salvaged from the dump long ago, before the environmentalists seized control of the world. I maintain that if I’ve never poisoned myself or the guests at my table, my food won’t poison anybody else either. Happily for me, some fine establishments on Martha’s Vineyard agree with me and are glad to buy as much of my illegal smoked bluefish as they can get. Why not? It’s the island’s finest, after all.
    It was mid-June and John Skye’s voice was on the line.
    â€œJust got down. Place looks fine. How are the fish running?”
    â€œThey’ve been up around Cape Pogue for the last couple of days. Not too big, but lots of them.”
    â€œThe little ones are best. Have supper with me. I’ll feed you my catch.”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œZee working nights? No? I’ll give her a call. Maybe she can join us. All my own women are out west. Bachelorhood is no kind of life, my boy; you’ve got to have women around if you want to be happy. I’m going fishing. You want to come along?”
    â€œSorry. Delivery day.”
    â€œAh. See you about six.”
    â€œYes.”
    On the way to John’s farm, I saw Geraldine Miles walking on the bike path. Her pace was longer and she was moving more easily than when last I’d seen her. She was young and her body was healing itself. Her face looked better, too. There was some color in it. I liked the way she looked.
    At six, I parked my ancient, rusty Land Cruiser beside John’s brand-new blue Jeep Wagoneer. John came out of the house, shook hands, and helped me take three cases of liquor from his Jeep and put them in the Land Cruiser. On Martha’s Vineyard, booze, like all other commodities, is vastly overpriced, so when our friends come down from America they bring our orders for life’s essentials with them. John handed me his receipt for the liquor and I paid him in cash. A deal. I found a bottle of Moselle in one of my boxes and followed John back into the kitchen, where I put the bottle in the freezer for a fast chill.
    He took two glasses and a half gallon of Stoli from the same freezer, sloshed dry