“Of course. I remember. Denise Carpenter. I’m from Clifton, New Jersey, and yes, I’d love a daiquiri.”

He snagged one from a passing tray. Denise thought his Hegbert theory was nonsense—the turtles usually swam in aimless circles for a while after they were thrown in, so why would the thrower’s reaction time or strength of toss make any difference?—but Jeffrey Thompkins himself was so agreeably real, so cheerfully blatant, that she found herself liking him tremendously after her brush with the Byronic desperation of the tall man with the little bald spot. The phonied-up name was a nice capping touch, the one grotesque bit of fraudulence that made everything else about him seem more valid. Maybe he needed a name like that where he lived, or where he worked.

Now that she had accepted a drink from him, he moved a half step closer to her, taking on an almost proprietary air. He was about two inches shorter than she was.

“I see that Hegbert’s got Number Three in the second race. You want I should buy you a ticket?”

The tall man was covertly watching her, frowning a little. Maybe he was bothered that she had let herself be captured by the burly little car dealer. She hoped so.

But she couldn’t let Thompkins get a ticket for her after she had told the tall man she wasn’t betting tonight. Not if the other one was watching. She’d have to stick with her original fib.

“Somehow I don’t feel like playing the turtles tonight,” she said. “But you go ahead, if you want.”

“Place your bets, ladies gemmun, place your bets!”

Hegbert did indeed throw Number Three quickly and well, but it was Five that won the race, after some minutes of the customary random noodling around in the pool. Five paid off at three to one. A quick sidewise glance told Denise that the tall man and the leggy Connecticut widow had been winners again.