He couldn’t have cared any less about staying quiet. His drunk ass just stumbled and bumbled around the room, doing this and that, until he finally collapsed into bed next to me. He fell asleep with his shoes still on, snoring like a fed bear within a minute, and I laid there listening to him until the sun came up.
Normally, that’s a recipe for a very bad morning. A hungover Raymond is a dangerous Raymond. But he must’ve gotten good news last night, because he’s been all chummy smiles since we gathered in the hotel lobby to be bussed out to the site of this year’s bird m******e.
Behind us, the staff are unloading shotgun cases out of the back of an old-school Land Rover and lining them up on a folding table draped in green felt. The two dozen or so partners are clustered nearby, cheeks a
