VIII
Phil struggled through the slap-slap of an invigorating gray surf, until he realized it was a wet towel wielded by Juno.
"How's the head?" she inquired with a grin that showed her lip scar.
The head seemed twice as thick and heavy as usual to Phil, but he didn't feel any special pain until his exploring hands came to the lump on his chin.
"You're okay," she told him, tossing the towel on the upset black and silver table. He doubted it.
"Do you think that by any chance Mr. Brimstine is a Beelzebite?"
Phil gingerly swiveled his head around. Sacheverell, whose green garment now seemed just a garish and not too clean bathrobe and whose dark complexion was merely sunburn again, appeared to be having a conference of some sort with Jack and Cookie. They were drinking. Mary was busy at her work table.
"A what?" Cookie asked suspiciously.
"You know, a Satanist, a devil-worshipper," Sacheverell explained briskly. "That would explain his stealing the Green One. A Satanist wouldn't want good to bloom in the world."