“What do we do now?” Paul asked.
“I don’t know. Offer him a drink?”
“Sure thing,” the floater said. I got a towel from the pump shed and went down to the dock. Bob Dylan – no question now, it was him – rolled off the mattress, careful to keep the brim of his hat dry. He slung the mattress up on the diving raft and did a credible breaststroke to the end of the dock, where he held on to the edge with thin white fingers.
“No ladder?” He asked.
The nails on the baby finger on each hand were extra long, and filed square.
“Let me give you a hand.”
I leaned over, careful to keep my scoop-neck shirt from gaping, and Dylan grabbed hold of me like a big ropey eight-year-old. He was pale as a grub, with a dot of chin hair and that riverboat-gambler moustache he started wearing around Love and Theft. But his blue eyes were still strong and clear, and met mine. He whisked the water off his arms with his hands.
“Water’s real nice, once you get in.”
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