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Tildy adjusted her dark glasses.
    “You can do better than that. Have a little something with me, I hate to eat alone.”
    “I don’t like breakfast, I never have.”
    “You gotta eat to live. Were you always this scrawny?”
    “More or less.”
    Sparn ordered pork chops, eggs and grits. He did tricks with the flatware, flirted with the waitress and generally comported himself like a jolly Uncle Ned. Tildy had known the man for some years and had found little in him to admire. But he had a certain resilience.
    “So you girls partied pretty late last night, huh? You all gonna turn into zombies?”
    “Coffeyville, two o’clock. We’ll be ready.”
    Counting under his breath, Sparn dumped four spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee. “You sure you won’t have something with me? I suppose you’re sick to here with this diner food.”
    “It’s not so bad. I just always ask for extra gravy.”
    Sparn slid abruptly forward and pressed her hand. “Where is your life now, Tildy? Are you happy with it?”
    Tildy was so surprised she gave a straight answer. “I don’t know.”
    Sparn was making her nervous. Definitely. He has this way of ambushing people, she thought; and recalled an afternoon they’d spent together a few years ago, the day he’d asked her to become a Cougarette.
    She was working for Sparn on the topless go-go circuit at the time, and making a fair piece of change. Bare tits were still a big item back then and a bar owner could get five or six bucks for a pitcher of beer from anyone who wanted to see them in action. Tildy was a small, lean, woman, in marked contrast to most of the pneumatic dollies she worked with, but she moved like a snake and the rubes would line up to stuff tips in her G-string. Older men in particular seemed to dig her girl-child body. She was billed as the Ragin’ Cajun, Sparn’s idea. Tildy was one of his favorites.
    He called her one Sunday and invited her to a cruise party on the Saint John’s River. They were already out in the channel by the time Tildy discovered they were the only two people aboard the Big Peter .
    “Look, Pete, if this is one of those fuck-or-swim deals, I’m not doing either one.”
    Sparn was deeply offended. A soft breeze, sun on the water and two friends sitting down for some pleasant conversation. Where was the harm in that?
    “I’m not sure I can buy that.”
    “But I like talking to you, kid. You got smarts. I’m still trying to figure you out.” He poured her a pineapple daiquiri. “Yeah, Tildy Soileau is a very strange item, you know that.”
    “I’ve heard it before, if that’s what you mean.”
    “You know, you’re the only girl I ever sent out didn’t try a little hooking on the side. Hell, you’re the only one still using pasties.”
    “What can I tell you, Pete. It’s the way I was brought up.”
    “No kidding? How’d you get in this business anyway?”
    “Just luck.”
    They anchored in calm water off of Fort Caroline and Sparn went swimming. He did the breaststroke and kept his hat on. Then, with fresh daiquiris, they perched astern on swivel chairs and discussed boating safety, the best places to eat crab and the case of a local attorney on trial for murdering his wife with a nine-iron. Tildy began to relax after Sparn applied suntan oil to himself without asking for help. It was after turkey salad sandwiches and another daiquiri that Pete sprang the ambush.
    “You ever play baseball when you were a kid?”
    “Who remembers?”
    Sparn then ran down the entire Cougarettes scheme to her, talking so fast and excitedly that he spilled his drink. He scurried inside, returned with a sketch pad and showed her the green and gold uniforms he’d designed.
    “You’re all fired up over this, aren’t you, Pete?”
    “Aren’t you?”
    “Not really.”
    “Did I forget to mention that you’re going to be my shortstop?”
    “Get out of here. I can’t play baseball. I don’t even know who won the World Series last