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little girl might prefer not to come rather than feel out of place. That was all right, he was cultivating patience. Trying to.
    But three bourbon Manhattans later his vibration level had him out in the lobby at the pay phone, dialing a number in Belle Glade he’d looked up and memorized weeks ago. He said to the woman who answered, “I’d like to speak to Dicky Campau.”
    She said, “You want frogs, we don’t have none.”
    This woman would have to be the frog gigger’s wife, Inez. He had seen her once or twice out at the lake.
    “What I want is to speak to the man of the house.”
    That got a sound from the woman Bob Gibbs couldn’t identify. In a moment a male voice came on saying, “Yeah?”
    “This is Judge Gibbs speaking. You know that hearing of yours coming up?”
    “I believe it’s next week, Judge.”
    “I’m moving it up to the day after tomorrow. How’d you like to do me a favor?”
    There was silence on the line.
    “Do I have a choice in the matter?”
    Bob Gibbs said, “Why certainly,” sounding surprised. “You can be let off with a warning or draw a five-hundred-dollar fine and a year in the Stockade. Take your pick.”

5
    T hey crossed the middle bridge over to Palm Beach, Dale Crowe Junior driving, his uncle Elvin sitting back to take in the sights, what had changed in the ten years he was out of circulation.
    On Royal Palm Way, Dale said, “Over here, they see you driving around at night in a pickup truck they’re liable to stop you. They don’t even need a reason.”
    Elvin said, “I won’t worry about it if you won’t.” He was cool for a guy his age, close to fifty. He had on a straw cowboy hat he said was the Ox Bow model and three-hundred-fifty-dollar boots he said had once belonged to his big brother Roland, now dead. Went off to Miami and got himself shot by a woman. Elvin talked about his brother a lot, saying how Roland had worked for the Italians down there and was paid a good buck for his services, wore three-hundred-dollar boots and suits made in Taiwan China. This was while they’d stopped for pizza at a place on Dixie Highway and had two pitchers of beer. It was going on eight o’clock now, dark out.
    Dale said, “I get stopped and have to take a Breathalyzer I’m fucked.”
    “What’re you worried about,” Elvin said, “they might put you in jail? Tell them you’re about to do five years, have to catch you later.”
    “Shit,” Dale said.
    He had cooled down since yelling at the judge in court and they threatened to put cuffs and leg-irons on him, then let him go when the judge didn’t make a case of it. He had seven days to think of what prison would be like. Elvin, eating pizza, said he’d give him some pointers on how to jail. Since they’d be together this week.
    Dale had let his uncle move in while his two roommates were finishing up thirty days for criminal mischief. Got freaked on crack and kicked in a guy’s windshield for no reason. Now Elvin was talking about staying on after Dale left. The house was in Delray Beach, a dump but only a few blocks from the ocean. Smell that salt air, Elvin said, it would clean the stink of prison off him. Dale said, well, his roommates were about to get their release, he believed either today or tomorrow. If Elvin wanted to stay he’d have to talk to them about it. Elvin said he’d had enough of roommates to last him. If he stayed, they’d have to leave. Like that, taking over. Dale had said, “You don’t know my roommates.” Elvin said, eating pizza, “And they don’t know me, huh? You don’t either.”
    That was a fact. Ten years old when his uncle was arrested for murder and stood trial, Dale knew him more from photographs than face-to-face. Elvin in his airboat. Elvin standing with Dale Senior, the oldest brother. Elvin with Roland, both big guys, twins to look at them, except Elvin was a few years younger. When Roland was shot dead and Elvin sent to prison for killing a man he thought was the one