Beckman did not like the Gold Coast of Florida. In no way had it lived up to his fantasies of loincloth freedom and paradisiacal plenty. It was, instead, an unnaturally expensive wedge of real estate, overcrowded with assorted rich people, hurrying merchants, and servile domestics, all sealed away by stone, and all speaking a polyglot of dialects from across North America.
It was, however, quieter in Palm Beach than it was in Miami. The elite like their distance, especially from each other and their dogs. Beckman felt he could tolerate the place as long as Honey could, and there was, he had to admit, a certain rare, wasteful elegance in sitting by the pool, in the sun, and drinking coconut milk and vodka from coconut shells mounted in silver holders, then making love to exhaustion at nigh
