“The creep,” the girl said.

“He doesn’t want you getting in any more trouble.”

“I like the way you stick up for him.”

“Well,” Bob Jr. said. “It’s his car.”

“It is not. It’s in my name. I made sure of that, Charlie.”

“Well, he gave it to you.”

“Big deal.”

“When do you go to court?”

“I don’t know. Next month.”

“I understand one of the boys is really hurt.”

“That’s too bad,” the girl said.

“I guess it’s his own fault.”

“You bet it is,” the girl said.

Bob Jr. eased lower in the white lounge chair. “Listen, why don’t you come on over here?” he said to the girl, whose name was Nancy and who had been living in Mr. Ritchie’s house since early June. “Why don’t you sit down and relax a while?”

“I’m going to go in and get a sweater.”

“Bring me one.”

“None of Ray’s would fit you.”

“I was just kidding. I don’t need any sweater.”

He turned, shifting his weight, to watch Nancy walk toward the house. She could stand about ten pounds but, damn, that was a nice little compact can in the white shorts and the striped top you could see down, and she knew it too, whenever she bent over. He watched her slide open the glass door that led into the activities room. That’s where the bar was. Maybe she’d bring out some drinks.

That’d be something. Get her to loosen up and relax. It was quiet now except for once in a while the faint, faraway sound of a boat motor; quiet and nice with the patio and swimming pool and most of the lawn in the shade; quiet and private with the stockade fence on both sides of the yard and, out in front, against the sky, the edge of the steep slope that dropped down to the beach: forty-eight steps and two landings. He ought to know because he had put the new stairway in the end of June with the two pickers helping him and Nancy lying around in the little two-piece outfit with her belly button showing. He had been coming back ever since.