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happened. I charged him and slammed him back against a radiator. Left a welt on his back that I think stayed with him through high school. He got up, picked up his books, and put out a hand to me. In it was about four dollars. In quarters. Everything I had given him. He just grinned at me. “Been waiting for you to do that, Neddie-boy.”
    That’s what flashed through my mind, the whole crazy scene in an instant. Then there were more gurneys. I counted four. My best friends in the world.
    I backed away in the crowd. Felt boxed in, trapped. My chest was cramping. I pushed against the tide of people pressing closer for a better look.
    And I was blasted with the thought: What good is a lifeguard who can’t save lives?

Chapter 17
    I DON’T REMEMBER MUCH about what happened next. All I know is that I staggered back to my car—fast—and drove—much faster.
    I went through my options. What choices did I have? Turn myself in?
C’mon, Ned, you participated in a robbery. Your friends are dead. Someone’s bound to connect you with Tess. They’ll pin a murder charge on you.
I wasn’t thinking straight, but one thing became shining clear:
My life here is over now.
    I flipped on the radio to a local news channel. Reporters were already at the scenes of the murders.
A young beauty at Palm Beach’s posh Brazilian Court. Four unidentified people murdered execution-style in Lake Worth.
… And other news.
A daring art heist on the beach. Sixty million in art reported stolen!
So there
was
a theft. But no mention if the police thought any of this was connected. And, thank God, nothing about me!
    It was after eleven when I finally crossed the Flagler Bridge back into Palm Beach. Two police cars were parked in the middle of Poinciana, lights flashing, blocking the road. I was sure they were looking for a Bonneville.
    “Game’s over, Ned!” I said, almost resigned. But I passed right by without a hitch.
    The town was quiet up there, considering everything going on. The Palm Beach Grill was still busy. And Cucina. Some tunes coming out of Cucina. But the streets were generally quiet. It reminded me of a joke: there are more lights in downtown Baghdad during an air raid than in Palm Beach after ten o’clock. I hung a right on County and drove down to Seaspray, then hung a left to the beach. I cautiously pulled into number 150, automatically opening the gates. I was praying for no cops.
Please, God, not now.
Sollie’s house was dark, the courtyard empty. My prayers were answered. For a little while.
    Sollie was either watching TV or asleep. Winnie, the housekeeper, too. I parked in the courtyard and headed up the stairs to my room above the garage. Like I said, my life there was over now.
    Here’s what I’d learned in Palm Beach. There’re thousand-dollar millionaires, the guys who pretend they’re rich but really aren’t. There are the old rich, and then there are the new rich. Old rich tend to have much better manners, are more attuned to having help around. New rich, which Sollie was, could be trouble—demanding, insulting, their insecurities about their windfall money coming out in abusive ways toward the help. But Sollie was a prince. Turned out he needed me to keep his pool clean, drive his big yellow Lab to the vet, chauffeur him around when he had an occasional date, and keep his cars polished. That turned out to be a joy. Sollie traded in collectible cars at Ragtops in West Palm as frequently as I switched out DVDs at Blockbuster. Right now he had a 1970 six-door Mercedes Pullman limo that used to belong to Prince Rainier; a ’65 Mustang convertible; a Porsche Carrera for a runaround; and a chocolate Bentley for big events… your typical Palm Beach garage stable.
    I pulled out two canvas duffels from under the bed and started to throw clothes in them. T-shirts, jeans, a few sweatshirts. The hockey stick signed by Ray Bourque that I’d had since the tenth grade. A couple of paperbacks I always liked.
Gatsby, The Sun