Peterstown

“Golf course. Par three. Hole in one. 1967. (pause) 28064212. (pause) LOST.”

“Bozo,” I said. “Boz*oo*.”

“Nepotism,” he followed quickly. “Nephew. New.”

“But not you.”

Richard vanished. Another took his place.

“Nephew?”

“To some. To a few,” the young man said.

“Is your name Peter?”

“To most. To a lot.”

“Are you well known?”

“I. Am.”

“Why do you keep flashing my name above your head.”

“*You* are well known.”

“Hmm. What are you doing here? In this palace?”

“It’s a hotel,” Peter replied. “Can you read?”

“… the land description, yes. (longer pause) So it’s *real*.”

“Kind of,” he said. Peter sat up, exposing less white legs beneath sinking bathing trunks. He was quite sun baked. From Hawaii he was.

“Why do you receive favors?” I continued.

“From Uncle Babyface?” he returned, already knowing my answer. “It’s a nephew thing.”

“I know that. Why are you here? What is your relationship to The Kidd over in Middletown, just across the strait from here? Your uncle can see your place…”

“*My* place?” he questioned, then was gone.

I took off my hat and scratched my head.

I sat there for a long time afterwards reading a book about squirrels.