Oliver knocked down as much of the Merlot, a good bottle, as he
decently could. There was a sharp cheddar, Havarti, Brie, a salsa, an
avocado dip, baby carrots, and various kinds of chips. As he ate and
drank, the conversations around him blurred together, so that he caught
the intent but not the detail, a more relaxing state. He had a small
Dewars and refrained from asking Eric to release the Laphroiag from its
hiding place. He began to see large wind-up keys protruding from the
backs of the guests. I must have one too, he thought, but set for a
different kind of motion. These guys would march back and forth in
front of the yacht club, six steps one way and six steps the other,
until they wound down.
He stepped outside and explained his key theory to a woman who was
smoking in front of the garage. She was thin with large dark eyes and a
high-strung manner. "I'm more of an all-terrain guy. Take it slow; keep
going until your hat floats."
"I got the _other woman_ key," she said in a surprising husky voice. "I
go in a straight line and turn around and no one's there. After awhile,
I do it again in a different direction."
"Shit," Oliver said sympathetically.
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