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a go-cart falls out of the goddamn sky! I couldn’t take it again, Doc. This is the second time in ten days this has happened and I just can’t handle anymore.”
    I was confused. “Second time what has happened? In another plane, you mean?”
    “No. But I still had to change shorts.” He lowered his voice. “I feel like I have a bull’s-eye tattooed on my ass. Hell, you and Danny almost bought the farm just through association. Second time in a week I almost died.”
    I said, “What in the world are you talking about?”
    The last three nights, Tomlinson had stopped at the lab, for one reason or another, and this was the first he’d mentioned a close call. “On your boat? Where?”
    From the seaplane, Dan Futch’s voice hollered across the sawgrass, “Guys! Guys. Get over here. I want to show you something!” His tone had the sound of discovery.
    Tomlinson looked toward the plane, then at me. “It was in your lab—under it, actually.”
    Now I was totally confused. “What the hell are you saying?”
    Futch called, “You gotta see this bullshit!”
    Suddenly uneasy, Tomlinson turned and began walking toward the plane. “He sounds pissed off. I’ll tell you about it later.”
    I said, “Tomlinson . . . ?”
    “Doc, it wasn’t a huge deal. The night you got called to Tampa, I was messing around near your fuse box and almost got electrocuted. That’s why I’m not flying out of here, man. Flipping fate the bird is something I’ve learned not to do. Trust me, the details can wait.”
    I was staring at the man’s back. I said, “ Electrocuted  . . . Geezus,” while my brain tried to make some sense out of what he’d said. The previous week, I’d told my marina neighbors I had to go to MacDill for a couple of days. Because I didn’t know how long I’d be gone, I’d arranged for a friend to check on my aquaria and feed whatever needed feeding. Janet Nicholes, who lives in an apartment above the marina, was my regular helper. But she, her husband, Jeth, and toddler son had gone to Key West for a week. So I had imposed on my new workout partner to help, a tall, athletic, and oddly attractive woman named . . .
    Hannah Smith.
    When Hannah’s name flashed into my head, I suddenly understood why my old buddy was reluctant to share details. I started after him, calling, “Wait until later, my ass!” The man flinched when I grabbed his shoulder, then demanded, “What were you doing in my lab? You knew damn well I was away for a few nights. Just like you knew Hannah would be there—didn’t you!”
    Sex addiction is a pseudo malady, in my opinion, a term coined to excuse infidelity, but Tomlinson’s behavior does border on pathology. It wouldn’t be the first time he had broken the first tenet of male comradeship.
    “Now, Doc,” Tomlinson said, holding his hands up, “you two aren’t dating. That’s what you said at the pool bar, remember? Then a few days later, in the lab, you told me, ‘I’ll never lose another good workout partner to the bedroom.’ Or something close to that. And Hannah told me the same thing—more or less, anyway.”
    “ Hannah told you,” I said, glaring. “So it’s true! You tried to ambush another one of my women . . . and in my own damn house.”
    In any confrontation, there is a sly device Tomlinson employs to gain the advantage. He pretends to be patient, empathetic, and eager to understand—which is maddening. He used the finesse now. “I won’t bust you by mentioning ownership to Hannah . . . it was just a slip of the tongue, I’m sure. As good as forgotten, so, you know—like, float on, man!”
    Float on , his new favorite phrase to wish people well or to avoid responsibility, often both. So I warned him, “You’re going to be floating faceup if I hear that again before this is settled.”
    “Whoa,” he said, “you got to get off the violence train, ol’ buddy.” But then saw the look on my face, so conceded, “On the other hand, you