In one bedroom Raleigh lay sleeping with his arms crossed over his face; in the other, Gates lay curled in a ball in the corner of the bed. They were still asleep after Mingo showered, studied his scrapes and bruises, dressed in a fresh pink polo shirt and checked pants, and (finding in the kitchen no food that wasn’t green with fungus) drove the Cadillac back to the center of Kure Beach to a grocery store where he spent some more of one of his shoe fifties to buy food, plus some souvenir saltwater taffy. When he returned to the beach cottage, there was a telegram wedged in the door, addressed to Raleigh Hayes. Mingo’s heart was thudding. Somebody must be dead! Should he wake up Raleigh right now? What a terrible way to get bad news! On a piece of paper! Maybe he should find out what it said and he could help Raleigh prepare himself; make him take a big drink, or lie down, or something like that. Mingo held the envelope against the kitchen light, but he couldn’t see inside. There was nothing to do but try what they did in the movies.
