The four guys in the safari suits had been getting progressively drunker—and louder. And they had been giving Stella, the pretty, worn waitress, a hard time. Hervey didn’t seem to notice. He seemed caught up in what Grafton had told him about the inevitable death of the Everglades. I remembered the dreamy way he had described the cypress heads to me, and I could understand his concern. Finally, I caught Stella’s eye and called for our check. She seemed relieved to be pulled from the demands of the fish king and his brown-nose court. She came over smiling, our check in her hand. “So you fellas aren’t going to stay and dance with me either, huh?” she said, laughing. “I don’t even dance with my wife,” Hervey said quickly, as if she really meant it. “I’ll dance with you, Stella,” I said. “But after we get some supper.” She rubbed at the back of her neck briefly, wearily. “To tell you the truth, I’ll probably be asleep on my feet by that time.” “Tough night?”
