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Now getting her neat mind in order.
    â€œAnd you come all the way down from Palm Beach to see me? I appreciate it.”
    She said, “Well, I get around—”
    â€œHey, I bet you do.”
    â€œI travel quite a lot,” Kyle said. “So I don’t consider the drive from Palm Beach a major effort.”
    That sounded pretty neat and orderly. Chucky slipped over next to the coffee table to look down at her, get a closer view. Delicate girl features—a touch of blush, lip gloss maybe, just a speck—but with a backpacking outdoor look about her. Her right hand rested on a straw handbag next to her.
    â€œYou don’t have a little mini tape recorder in there, do you?”
    He heard her say, “No, I don’t. Why, do they inhibit you?” as he turned and walked a few steps toward the balcony. Stopped and turned back to her with his grin in place.
    â€œI know people these days’d have you patted down before they’d say a word. Which doesn’t sound like too bad an idea.” He paused, catching her solemn expression, and said, “I hope you know when I’m kidding.”
    Kyle said, “Why don’t you give me a call sometime when you’re not”—picking up her handbag—”and I happen to be down this way.”
    Chucky said, “Hey, come on, I’m serious now. Look-it how serious I am.”
    But she glanced toward the door and so did Chucky at the sound of three light raps. Chucky said, “Yeah? Who goes?” and one of the double doors opened.
    Lionel Oliva, in a pale-blue double-breasted suit and silky gray sportshirt, stepped in from the hall. He said to Chucky, “Rainy is here. What should I do with him?”
    â€œJesus, Rainy,” Chucky said, “that’s right. Put him in the den.”
    â€œThere somebody with him. Rainy say is a friend of his.”
    Chucky squinted. “You got one of my shirts on.”
    â€œYou gave it to me,” Lionel said.
    â€œYeah, I guess it’s all right,” Chucky said. “Rainy’s insecure.” He started to turn away and stopped. “Lionel? You ever see the guy before?”
    â€œNo, it’s somebody he met, you know, where he was up there.”
    â€œYeah, I guess it’s okay,” Chucky said. The door closed as he turned back to Miss Kyle McLaren . . .
    All eyes. Look at her looking at him, the little broad from Palm Beach in her pure and spotless sundress, clean undies and a light cotton blazer, perfect for business or casual wear, for that cocktail at the Everglades Club with an important client or maybe even Mr. Right . . .  He could see a shot of her and this clean-cut bozo in Town & Country.
    â€œWhat can I get you?”
    â€œNothing, thanks.”
    â€œYou don’t drink?”
    She said, “I don’t care for anything.” Sitting on the edge of the sofa. “Why don’t we try to do this another time?”
    â€œNo, look, you’re here,” Chucky said. “Let me ask you one question, we can play it from there. Okay?”
    She nodded. “All right.”
    â€œWhat do you think of gold?”
    â€œRight now? I like Swiss franc futures better.”
    â€œCome on, how do you see it as an investment? What I want to know is, you going to give me a straight answer or a lot of words?”
    â€œWell, first of all”—she sounded vague again—”you don’t invest in gold, you speculate. The British fleet moved on the Falklands last spring and the price rose twenty-three points the first two days . . .”
    â€œThere. That’s what I mean by words,” Chucky said, moving in on the coffee table again. “Now you’re going to tell me about uncertainties in the world market, devaluation of the pound, all those Wall Street words. Right?”
    â€œAnd as the fleet sailed,” Kyle said, settling back into the sofa but not taking her