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got it. See you in about two minutes.”
    I hung up before Buford could respond. I thought about peeling rubber just to piss off Bob even more, but the old heap wasn’t up to it and would probably have blown a tire and dropped the transmission in the roadway.
    I drove in and to the left around a circular lane with well-manicured lawns and mansions set back from the outer side of the road and a park and country club in the center. When I got to Buford’s place I turned into his entranceway. Another gate and another guard shack. No one was in this one, and the gate swung open. I drove in around the circular driveway and parked at the front door.
    Buford’s shack was impressive. A three story colonial with a full-length front portico and Corinthian columns the height of the house. Tall windows on either side of a huge double door, which swung open when I got out of my car. Buford came out to greet me. We shook hands and went inside.
    What a place. The foyer opened onto a long wide hallway and a huge circular staircase. Paneling, paintings, and stained glass lined the walls. Statues in the hallways, chandeliers, and antique furniture along the walls completed the palatial picture. It looked like the lobby of a Victorian museum. We walked past the staircase and down the halls. A row of mahogany chairs lined one side of the wall.
    “Anybody ever sit in them,” I asked.
    “Not that I know of,” Buford said. “How did you find this place?”
    “Let’s get settled somewhere, and I’ll explain. Maybe in the ballroom, the amphitheatre, or the rugby stadium.”
    He pointed to a door that went out the back to an enclosed patio. “Go out there and find a seat. I’ll be out soon. Ramon will bring you a drink.”
    He turned away, went into what looked like either a study or the British Museum library and pulled the paneled pocket doors closed.
    I went into the patio area. Whenever a fictional detective goes into a mansion, there’s always a beautiful young woman wearing almost no clothes, lounging around, looking bored, and ready to jump the bones of the first man who comes along. Just like real life.
    I was right. A woman was there. A young woman. But not scantily clothed and not beautiful. She wore a robe and those ugly fuzzy pink slippers that women like and that look like troll feet. She was sitting in a chaise lounge reading a tabloid magazine. Her hair was up in curlers, and she was smoking a cigarette. She looked up when I came in and returned to her magazine.
    The glass-enclosed patio overlooked a large lake with clusters of trees all around it. It was late fall, and the trees were mostly bare except for the pine and fir trees. A golf course was off to one side and tennis courts to the other. The good life.
    A young Latino man in a white uniform appeared out of nowhere.
    “Would you like a drink, Señor?”
    I looked at my watch. Mickey Mouse said
eleven o’clock
plus or minus a few minutes. I couldn’t be more precise than that. Mickey’s gloved finger was too chubby.
    My resolve to quit drinking was weakening so I modified it. I said to myself, “I hereby resolve to not drink too much.” Then to the servant, “Bourbon, please. Neat.” I was sure Buford’s kerosene would be better than mine, and I looked forward to it. If I could hold it down.
    “Are you Ramon?” I asked the servant.
    “Si, Señor.” Then he turned to the young woman and said, “Does Missy care for a drink?”
    The young woman nodded, and Ramon disappeared into the house.
    The woman lowered her magazine and looked at me.
    “It’s a bit early,” she said as if to explain that she didn’t usually imbibe at this hour, an explanation I didn’t believe.
    “Not in Madagascar ,” I answered.
    “Where’s that?”
    “Beats me. Are you Mrs. Overbee?” Buford had said he had a twenty-two year old wife. I expected something a little nicer than what was sprawled out lounging a few feet away, however. Her age was right, but this tomato had