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you’re working as hard as you ever did, but you shouldn’t take life too seriously. And don’t let a run of bad luck get you down, do you hear?”
    I nodded. Ed jabbed me in the ribs sharply with his elbow.
    â€œYou’ve still got a lot of friends, you big dumb bastard!” he finished gruffly. With a quick movement he snapped on the dash radio, twisted the volume on full and almost blasted me out of my seat. He turned the volume down again and said bitterly: “And on top of everything else, there’s nothing on the radio these days but rock ‘n’ roll!”
    He left the radio on anyway, and said no more until we reached Saint Cloud. We pulled into the parking area of a garish drive-in restaurant and got out of the car. It was only six thirty, but the sun had dropped out of sight. There were just a few jagged streaks of orange in the western sky, an intermingling of nimbus clouds and smoke from runaway muck fires. As we admired these fiery fingers in the sky, Mr. Middleton smacked his lips.
    â€œHow does a steak sound, Frank?”
    I certainly didn’t intend to spend my remaining ten dollars on a steak. In reply, I emptied my pockets and showed him a double handful of junk, and some loose change.
    â€œI didn’t expect you to pay for it,” he said resentfully. “Let’s go inside.”
    The sirloin was excellent. So was the baked potato and green salad and three cups of coffee that went with it. After three weeks of Dody’s halfhearted cooking, I appreciated a good steak dinner. On regular fare, such as greens, pork chops, string beans, cornbread and so on, I’m a fairly good cook, and I enjoy the preparation of my own meals. But I never prepare food when I have a woman around to do it for me. As I ate, I wondered vaguely how Jack Burke was making out with the girl. Although I was broke, the steak restored my good spirits, and I felt a certain sense of newfound freedom now that I no longer had Dody to worry about.
    We lingered over dinner for more than an hour and didn’t arrive at Mr. Middleton’s home until after nine. His ranch-style concrete brick and stucco house was about three miles off the main highway on a private gravel road and completely surrounded by orange groves. An avid fisherman, Ed had built his home with the rear terrace overlooking a small pond. He parked in a double carport, set well away from the house, backing in beside a blue Chevy pickup.
    Before we crossed the flagstone patio, Ed flipped a switch in the carport and flooded the patio and most of the small lake with light. The pond was about forty yards in diameter, and there was an aluminum fishing skiff tied to a concrete block pier at the edge of the gently sloping lawn.
    â€œI’ve stocked the damned lake with fish four different times,” Ed said angrily, “but they disappear someplace. Hide in the muck at the bottom, I suppose. Anyway, I’ve never been able to catch very many.”
    When the lights were turned on, Mrs. Middleton opened the back door and peered out. Her dark hair, shot through with streaks of gray, was collected in a heavy round bun at the nape of her neck.
    â€œWho’s that with you, Ed?” she asked.
    We crossed the patio to the door and Ed kissed his wife on the mouth. He gripped my upper arm with his thick fingers and pulled me in front of him.
    â€œFrank Mansfield, Martha. You remember him, I’m sure. He’s going to spend the night with us.”
    â€œOf course,” Martha said. “Come on inside, Frank, before the mosquitoes eat you alive!”
    We entered the kitchen and I blinked uncomfortably be neath the blue-and-yellow fluorescent lights. I shook hands with Mrs. Middleton after she wiped her hands unnecessarily on her clean white apron. She was a motherly woman, about ten or fifteen years younger than her husband, but without any children to “mother.”
    â€œHave you boys had your