The proper course of action came to him when he switched to bourbon. Bourbon focused the mind, elevated it to awarenesses of human relationships not understood in mere gin and vermouth.

Bourbon told him that it was every man for himself. It was the law of the jungle. And he, James Bullingsworth, had been a fool to think he lived in a civilized society. A fool. Did the bartender know that?

‘We’re cutting you off, Mister,’ said the bartender.

‘Then you’re the fool,’ Bullingsworth said. ‘Beware the king of the jungle,’ he said, and remembering a Miami Beach official who once spoke at a church picnic and said he was glad to see young men like James Bullingsworth get involved in civic affairs, he phoned that official.

‘Why don’t we talk this over in the morning, huh, fella?’ said the official.

‘Because, baby, you may not be around in the morning. They’re going to indict your ass next. Parking meter receipts.’

‘Maybe we’d better not talk about this on the phone. Where can we meet?’

‘I want a million dollars for what I have. A cool million, buddy, because this is the law of the jungle.’

‘Do you know the Mall in Miami Beach, the end of the Mall?’

‘Do I know the Mall? Do you know what you people are planning for construction on Key Biscayne? Do I know the Mall?’

‘Look, fella, at the end of the Mall, on the beach near the Ritz Hotel. Can you get there in an hour?’

‘I can get there in fifteen minutes.’

‘No, don’t get in any accidents. I think you’ve got something very valuable.’

‘A million dollars valuable,’ said Bullingsworth, drunkenly slurring the words. ‘A million dollars.’

He hung up and, while passing the bar, informed the bartender that he just might come back, buy the bar and fire his Irish ass the hell out of there. He waved the notebook with the scribbles in front of the bartender’s face.