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not taken care of herself .
    “No, I’m Miss Curro.” She sounded annoyed. “Mrs. Overbee is my trophy stepmother. She’ll be along soon. She’s getting her massage.”
    Miss Curro put out her cigarette and lit another one. I took a cue from her and lit one for myself. My last, I told myself.
    “Is Missy your name?” I asked.
    “It’ll do. It’s all that wetback greaser can remember. What’s yours?”
    “Manuel Garcia,” I said just to piss her off. She sniffed and returned to reading her magazine.
    Ramon returned with my drink and put it on a lace paper coaster on the round frosted glass table next to me. He handed Missy a shot glass full of a brown liquid, and she knocked it back and gave the glass back to Ramon, who vanished again.
    “Isn’t it a bit early?” I asked.
    “Not in Mada—wherever,” she said.
    I took a small sip to see whether my demons from last night would return to churn my innards. An empty silver champagne bucket stood on its stand nearby. I kept it within reach in case the booze evicted the oatmeal and cantaloupe. The bright white porous patio deck looked like it would permanently stain from whatever came out of me.
    To my surprise and delight, the bourbon was not only smooth, but it stayed down where it belonged and where it went immediately to work. Another swallow and I had that glow that comes only with the first drink. That’s when you love everything and everybody. Another couple drinks and the love evaporates as you get drunk and depressed. If they could come up with a drink that keeps that buzz going, I’d buy stock in the company. Maybe Buford could advise me.
    I remembered my resolve. Don’t drink too much. I finished the drink, settled back, and Ramon was there again with a refill.
    “What the hell,” I said. “I’ll quit some other time.”
    Missy looked up. “Quit what?”
    About that time Buford came out onto the patio. He sat next to me, and Ramon was there right away with what looked like a tall glass of tomato juice. Buford stirred it with the celery stalk that stood up in the glass.
    “Am I drinking alone?” I asked.
    “Stoli and V8. Great for a hangover.”
    I made a mental note of that.
    “Now,” Buford said, “How did Rodney find where I live?”
    “Your cell phone lives here too. He tracked it with the GPS.”
    “Holy shit. Technology. You can’t escape it.”
    “Turn off the GPS when you don’t need it,” I said and showed him on my phone what Rodney had shown me.
    “I take it you met Melissa.” Buford gestured toward the lump in the chaise lounge. “My daughter, my pride and joy.”
    Melissa smiled at him, got up, and pulled her chaise lounge over next to Buford’s.
    The door from the house opened, and a young woman came out. Now this was more like in the detective novels. She was tall and slim with blonde hair and wearing designer sunglasses, elevated sandals, and a white terrycloth robe that fell open in the front to reveal a tiny black bikini on a hard body.
    The bikini did its job, covering those parts of her that were not supposed to be seen in public and not much else. She might as well have been wearing two Band-Aids and a cork.
    Just the kind of ten I never got. Even when I was young enough.
    “Oh, great,” Missy whispered to herself. “The princess.” She rolled over on her chaise lounge so she wouldn’t have to look at the vision of loveliness that had just joined us.
    “You didn’t tell me we expected company, Buford,” the vision said. “I would have gotten, y’know, like dressed. Aren’t you going to, like, introduce us?”
    She still had that unmistakable teenaged girl dialect that everyone recognizes right away. “Didn’t” was “didunt,” and she bore the valley girl look. Her name had to be Muffy or Tiffany.
    I tried to stand up, gentleman that I am.
    “Don’t like get up,” she said.
    Good thing. Getting up would be a problem. Buford’s fine bourbon was beginning to take hold.
    “Mr. Stanley