Today he had waited until 5:30, giving Mr. Ritchie plenty of time to start back to Detroit. If Mr. Ritchie had still been here, Bob Jr. figured he could always say he’d come to check on the boat. Mr. Ritchie did that a lot on Sunday: he and Nancy would go out and fool around a couple of hours then tie up at the house instead of the yacht club so Mr. Ritchie could change, get right in his car, and head for Detroit. Then Bob Jr. would have to call the yacht club for somebody to come over and pick up the boat-a beauty sitting out there now, a thirty-eight footer, white with dark green trim, white and pickle green, like everything Mr. Ritchie owned: white house with a green sun deck over the lower level, green shrubs, green tile around the pool, green Mustang, green Lincoln, all the farm equipment green, a green and white Swiss-looking hunting lodge up back of the farm property. It was all right, Bob Jr. had decided, if you liked green and white, but his favorite colors, personally, were blue and gold, the colors of the uniforms they had worn at Holden Consolidated.

She came out in a light blue crew-neck sweater that looked nice with her dark hair, taking her time and not carrying a bottle or glasses, damn it. It was strange she walked so slow, a girl as itchy-bitchy as she generally was.

“I thought I had another set of keys,” Nancy said, “but I don’t.”

“I’ll tell you what. I’ll let you use the pickup.”

“That son of a bitch. He expects me to sit here all week waiting for him.”

Bob Jr.’s head was turned to watch her. “Isn’t that part of the deal?”

“The deal, Charlie, is none of your business.”

“Why don’t you get us some drinks?”

“I want to do something.”

“Well, let’s see,” Bob Jr. said. “We could go out in the boat.”

“I’ve been out in the boat.”