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had turned out to own half of Brazil.)
    Tanager was a former linebacker for the New England Patriots, and looked the part, being almost my size. His presence at the bar of La Pomme d’Or had stopped many a fight before it could even begin. Given Tanagers tight-lipped nature, I was probably the only person on the islands who knew that he also held a degree in medieval French literature, and collected old 78’s.
    “How was the crowd last night?” I asked.
    Tanager shrugged. “The same.” He glanced at my bundle of leaves, but said nothing. I handed him the soggy lump.
    “I want you to run over to the mainland this morning and get this analyzed. Wait for the results.”
    Tanager said, “Okay, Mister Deatherage,” took the package and left.
    I went through the day’s mail that had just come over with the first boat. There was a letter from the big rent-a-cop firm that leased me and my men to the management of the Hesperides, reminding me that my quarterly report was overdue. That was about as much interference as I ever got from my nominal, distant bosses, and I resolved to placate them immediately so they’d stay away.
    When I was done with the deskwork, I went outside into the hot sun and cool breezes. During the couple of hours I had been busy, the promenade had filled with tourists. I stood with my back against the wall of my building and watched the women for a while, in their silly cocked caps with feathers nodding. It was nice work if you could get it
    One woman in particular intrigued me. Dressed like the rest, she seemed to be alone. I observed her as she idled in front of store windows, took a turn down the walkway, then stopped to rest her arms on the promenade’s railing, gazing out to sea. Boasting a fine figure, she wore her short blonde hair moussed into spikes. She seemed awfully familiar .…
    I jolted upright, knowing suddenly that I knew her. Knew her well. Was I being self-deceitful, or merely blind, not to have recognized her for half an hour?
    I walked over to her. She didn’t hear my steps—no one does if I don’t want them to—and so she remained leaning forward until I spoke.
    “Hello, Ruth.”
    She started visibly, but recovered quickly enough to turn slowly. She had had a facial biosculpt, but I recognized now the basic contours I had known during our marriage. Except now there were no bruises on her skin.
    “Hello, Leon,” she said in a calm but stiff voice. “This is a surprise. Are you on holiday too?”
    “No. I work here now.”
    She seemed genuinely astonished. “You left the force?”
    “I couldn’t take it anymore. You knew better than anyone what it was doing to me. I had a breakdown shortly after we split. Now I’m a glorified security guard. An old cop’s last refuge. Hell, I even gave up smoking last year. I couldn’t stand another one of those damn vegetable cigarettes.”
    She said nothing. Neither did I. She studied my face. I studied hers. I spoke first.
    “It’s your hair.”
    “What?”
    “It’s your hair more than your new face that threw me. I couldn’t picture you as anything but a brunette. Don’t get me wrong, though, I like it.”
    She smiled tentatively. “You do?”
    “I do. Really.”
    Her smile lasted a minute, then disappeared as old memories swarmed up behind it. “You seem changed, Leon. But I forget sometimes it’s been three years. A lot can happen in three years, can’t it?”
    “Sure.”
    She locked glances with me forthrightly. “But not enough to erase everything, Leon. Not by half.”
    “That’s what I figured.”
    We were silent again, each looking uncomfortably out to sea, as if for instructions on how to behave. Again, I broke the silence.
    “How’s the practice?”
    “I run a clinic now, Leon, under my own name. The Weatherall Clinic for Sexual Dysfunctions. Have you heard of it?”
    I’m afraid I was a little bitter. “Caters to rich neurotics?”
    “Hardly. My clients are mostly rape victims who need to relearn