Michael Prince shifted his gaze from his odometer to his gas gauge, eyes flicking back and forth like a metronome, calculating how much further he could travel on two gallons of regular unleaded. If I get twenty-six miles to a gallon and it's fifty-four miles to Beale Island, I'll run out two miles before I get there . . . unless . . . Michael eased up on the accelerator, put the car in neutral and coasted. If I can go downhill fast enough, I might be able to make it to the top of the next one. Geezer Jenkins' Ferry is just over the hill. If I can make it there, I can make it to Beale Island with gas to spare.

Michael turned off the engine of his Audi A4 Avant Quattro, barely coasted to the top of the next hill and then jammed on the brakes as he sped toward the boat landing, but the only thing he saw when he arrived was the end of a banana-smeared rope tethered to the pier, an inverted umbrella and six dead crabs. Damn it, Geezer, get your sorry ass out of bed. I have to find Alan. Michael tapped his dead watch, hoping he could hock the strap for a buck or two, looked at the rising sun to guess the time, and tugged on the rope that stretched from the landing to Geezer's property on the other side of the bay. He tugged again; then he yanked on it two-hundred sixteen more times, hollering until he went hoarse, but Geezer didn't respond. Damn it! Geezer, get your sorry old ass out of bed.

Michael got back in his Audi and coasted down to the one-lane wooden bridge that led to Beale Island. He hated driving across that bridge and now that it was early morning and the rising sun, on its lowest possible angle, was shining directly into his eyes, he wondered why he had been reduced to this job, to this company, to this way of life. I wasn't cut out to be a sales clerk. I don't like people and I hate playing games. Michael, with both eyes squinting as if they were walnuts in a vise, drove-coasted, listening to each board creak, wondering when the whole God damned thing would crash into the Chesapeake Bay.

Think mantra. Think sale. Think Alan. Forget about the God damned bridge. Do it and get it over it for Christ's sake.

Michael heard another board crunch and drop into the bay. I'm coming back on the old geezer's ferry if I have to pull it across myself. Michael had just been discharged from the Norfolk Island Naval Base and hoped he'd never have to be on the water again; but he knew that if he couldn't get the Geez out of bed, he'd have to sail again-at midnight-with no moon-fleeing with Michael from the God forsaken castle. Before that, though, Michael was set on selling a security system to the residents of Baker Castle, and barring that, to rescue his friend, Alan Baker from his demented grandmother and her game-playing friends. Either Alan comes with me or I'll send him a JPEG of myself relaxing in Gloucester-alone!

Two more boards fell off the bridge moments before Michael reached Patrick's Landing, a village of forty-three summer cottages built in the 1920s for morticians, semi-retired dentists, and Presbyterian pastors who fled Washington, D.C. during the sticky summer months. Michael drove five miles an hour down the one-lane tar road, knowing the local police still lurked behind that infamous Motorola Billboard-the one with the big brown console TV and the buxom blonde model chewing Double Bubble Chewing Gum and her big gorgeous bubbles nearly burst within her skintight swim suit.

Then he headed toward the Scales' Family B&B Summer Cottages, inching by Geezer Jernigan's Ferry Service that was used most during crab and eel season when Geezer could turn a full crab pot into easy cash or spend the evening eating the inventory and drinking Bud Light.

Michael was tempted to stop and pound on Geez's door, to give him a piece of his mind, but he knew he'd end up chewing the fat with Winifred Geezer, the 68-year old dwarf who owned the ferry service, and then after a few beers and a perhaps a few left over fried eels, they'd mosey down to the storage shed where the Geez would show him his amputated leg, which he kept pickled in a vat of formaldehyde next to the cast iron pulleys, a dozen hand-carved mallard decoys, and a halfway refurbished 1958, two door Edsel Pacer.

Not before breakfast, Michael thought, not after breakfast, either, if I can help it. There's just no good time to see the Geez . . . or his putrefied leg. Michael pictured the Geez schlepping down to the boat ramp. I need a Pepto.

Michael's stomach growled and he felt like swinging by Merle's Bait Shop and Donut Emporium, but he knew it didn't open until nine and he wasn't going to waste his entire morning hanging in Patrick's Landing, where nothing ever opened on time because the residents were always too caught up with betting on which dog could piss the farthest or how fast Al Mirman's weathervane could spin. He eased down on the accelerator and drove past the pun-laden The Welsh Rabbit and Hare Salon, Virginia's first unisex barber shop and rabbit skinning factory, which also housed the county marriage license bureau, concealed weapon permit office, and the IKEA catalogue ordering desk (open every other Friday from noon until nine..

I'll check in at the Scales B&B, stow my gear, take a cold shower- unless they've finally figured out how to hook up the hot water heater- and drive to the castle to see Alan and make this God damned sale.

Michael's shower was quicker, colder, than he had predicted and he swore when he saw his toenails turning blue, but it sure as hell woke him up. He dressed carefully, and quickly, putting on a blue boxer-briefs, a dark blue shirt, black trousers, black socks, and black dress shoes, started out the door, turned back, picked up his Castle Security 4-ever baseball cap, twisted it backwards, and headed out the door.

He wanted to stop off at the convenience store to add another gallon of gas before visiting Alan but he noticed the place was still dark and the jingling coins in his pocket didn't have enough ring to them, anyway.

Michael opened the car door and pushed his Audi until it started to roll, then he hopped inside and slammed the door. His legs told him it would be easier to walk to the castle but his brain told him to make a good impression-and a salesman without a car was like a praying mantis without a hymnbook.

Towering above him, commanding the entire island, was the smoldering volcano, Mount Willoughby, and even though it only stood 483 feet tall, it was the highest natural elevation for over two hundred miles. Great location for a castle-even though they did cart the damned thing all the way from Ireland. I wonder what it looked like when it was new in 1253. I wonder if Ireland has mountains as high as Mount Willoughby. I wonder if this damned car can make it to the castle and back. . .

Michael hit a rut and the car slowed to a stop. He got out, leaned against it, and started pushing dithering in attitude from optimistically pessimistic to pessimistically optimistic, until he heard the horrendous snapping sound that frightened 99% of the tourists before they reached the castle's battlements. Kicking all four tires (the back two twice each because he was really pissed), he pushed and then jumped back inside drive-coasting closer to the weed-infested byway that led to the drawbridge.

A few moments later, Michael rounded the final bend, let the car come to a complete stop, and stared at Virginia's version of Mad Ludwig's Castle-the Baker family fortress, which stood behind sixty-foot walls and sat on a rocky plateau overlooking the Chesapeake Bay.

The chomping sounds were overpowering now, damnably overpowering. Those crocodiles sound hungry; I bet they savor the smell of man sweat. Michael sniffed his armpits; he knew he was in trouble.

He rolled up the Audi's windows and locked the doors; then he walked along the perimeter of the moat, looking up at the ramparts that extended a half a mile in either direction along the choppy waterfront, trying to glimpse the tops of the four stone towers that dominated the bay for over twenty miles.

The drawbridge was down and the crocs were on the far side of the moat, doing a little hanky panky, flapping their tails making crocodile love, but Michael wasn't sure they were into amore, so he bit his lip and raced across the drawbridge in four gigantic leaps, entering the castle's foyer, hoping to make a sale, and baring that, hoping Alan was ready to go.


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