Beckman vowed to his image in the mirror that this would be the last time. No more of this perverse humiliation. He straightened his tie and brushed back his hair again. It would not lay down regardless of how much hair grease he put on it and, even though it made him slightly nauseous to think of it, he did look a little like Fitzgerald. One more tug at the vest and he walked out to the pool. Honey had torches burning around the pool and a seemingly endless tape of 1920s jazz music. Leon was there and Honey danced with the sailor.
He started to turn back. Private craziness with Honey he could tolerate, but group craziness had to be out of the question. A line had to be drawn.
Leon shouted from his table by the pool, “Wait. I want to talk to you.”
Beckman stopped but did not turn around
