“Victor, trust me,” said Mr. Rogers. “You don’t want us to let you off here.”

I looked around. Two kids were shadowboxing in a corner under a dim streetlight on an otherwise deserted street.

“Maybe you’re right,” I said, slumping back.

“You know, you are messing in things way above your head, things you can’t even begin to understand. No sir. All politicians are liars, don’t you think?”

“There are some honest ones, I guess,” I said.

“But not Jimmy Moore. He’s a hell of a politician, but he lies and he steals and in the end he takes away everything he promised to give. Now I’m a businessman. I sell a product for a fair price and my customers keep coming back. And I make damn sure I get paid for it. But Victor, I sell more than just a product. I sell my customers a reason to wake up in the morning, a purpose for their lives, something to give meaning to everything they do. In that way, Victor, I’m like a god, and Jimmy resents that. You see, godhood was his career goal, but it wasn’t working out for him. I went to him after his sweet daughter died. I brought him proof of where she got the merchandise that killed her. It was a white group from the suburbs, from Bucks County, from Bensalem. And you think this is a hellhole. That’s where it came from and I had to hurt some people to get that proof. He said he didn’t care, that no matter where it came from I would pay the price. We were two men at war. We bloodied each other. But now the war is over.”

“I don’t understand.”

“There are things you’ll never understand, so I will make this simple.” He wagged a long, bony finger at me and spoke slowly, carefully. “I’ve been getting reports about you. You’ve been asking about missing money. Don’t. You’ve been stepping out of your role. Step back in. Listen to what I say, Victor, your health and career both depend on it, though I don’t really have any control over your career.”

He opened his eyes wide and peered at me, to be sure that I understood, and I did.

“Besides, Victor,” he continued, “anything you would do would hurt more than help. That’s simply your destiny. We all have destinies, Victor, and yours is to be a fuckup. Now, in addition to all this, it seems you know a friend of mine.”

“No. I don’t,” I said.

“How do you know who my friends are?” he said, a slash of anger in his voice.

“I don’t, I mean, I’m sorry.”

“Shut up, Victor.”

From the front seat Wayman laughed like a little maniac, first a hoot and then a series of loud snivels.

“This friend is very special to me, do you understand, and I like to keep track of who she is with.”

“She? A her?”

“You are a bright one, aren’t you. This friend of mine,” said Mr. Rogers, “she has this way of… let’s say attaching herself to people. I don’t want her to attach herself to you.”

“Who are we talking about?”

“We aren’t talking,” he said sharply. “I’m talking. Who I’m talking about is Ronnie Ashland. It is all part of the same thing. And what I’m saying is you stay away from her.”

“Veronica?”

“I assume you heard me, then. Any part of what I said you didn’t understand?”

“Why? What’s she to you?”

“He wants to know why, Wayman.”

“It’s not such a swift idea to ask why ‘round here,” said Wayman.

“I’ll tell you why,” said Mr. Rogers in a sweet voice. “Because if you don’t I’m going to hurt you.”

Wayman let out his scary, sniveling laugh again.

“I’m going to hurt you bad.”

“That’s why enough for me,” I said quickly, almost gaily.

“Good, Victor. Maybe you’re not as stupid as you look. Take us home, Wayman.”

“Yessir, Chauncey.”

Mr. Rogers took another sip from his glass of the councilman’s scotch. “You know, Victor, the extra twelve years really do make a difference.”

Wayman pulled the limo into the same spot we had been parked in before and killed the engine. Mr. Rogers finished his drink, put the glass back in the bar, and lifted up the panel.

“I never want to see you again, Victor, so be sure to remember all I told you this evening. If I leave one of my calling cards you’ll know it and I hope for your sake you’ll also know enough to be scared.”

He got out of the car and held the door open for Wayman, who skipped out of the front seat and leaned through the open door and smashed me in the face with the back of his hand.

I grasped my head in my hands and dropped it between my knees. Pain shot from my cheek to my groin and my eyeball stung so much I thought he had popped it and the fluid was running down my cheek. I opened my eyes through the pain and saw a blurry car floor and, with relief that my sight was still there, I heaved loudly and started to vomit.

Wayman remained leaning in the open door as I puked. “Tell me something, Vi’tor Carl,” he said. “You gots to pay more for two first names?” Then he laughed his sniveled laugh once more.

I was still bent double, hand covering my eye, gasping for a clear breath, when Henry came back to the car. “Aw, mon,” he said. “Him a-chucking in the car.”

“Fuck off,” I said.

“Aw, shit, mon, him a-chucking in the car. Councilman Moore, he won’t be liking that at all, mon.”

“Just fuck off.”

As he drove away from the corner the limo’s windows and the roof opened electronically, letting in the cool of the night. The fresh air only made it worse.

MY RIGHT EYE WAS swollen thick and pretty by the morning, with a dark swath sitting directly atop my cheekbone, fading into a brownish stain that ran like coffee down my cheek. The night before I had fallen into bed with an ice cube wrapped in a towel and that might have helped for a while, but I still woke in my suit pants and shirtsleeves, the towel empty, my sheets wet, the faint taste of vomit in my teeth. When I saw my eye in the mirror I wanted to heave again.

“What happened to you?” asked Ellie when I came into the office that morning.

“I walked into a door,” I said.

“Looks like the door had a left hook.”

“Just do me a favor, all right, Ellie,” I said. “Call up Bill Prescott’s secretary over at Talbott, Kittredge and ask her to send over a copy of the report by some jury-polling service he commissioned for the Moore and Concannon case.”

“Sure thing,” she said. “By the way, I have that address you asked for, the address of Winston Osbourne’s daughter.”

She handed me a handwritten note with an address in Malvern. Malvern, big lawns and old money in the heart of Chester County. I had never been there, but I knew there were horses in Malvern, horses and gentlemen farmers and old stone houses. It was Radnor Hunt country. Not too many synagogues in Malvern, I would bet.

“Perfect,” I said. “Send a copy of our judgment to the Chester County Sheriff’s Office and tell them we think Osbourne’s Duesenberg is parked at that address in Malvern. Get the serial number from the file and tell them we want it seized, immediately. Pay any fees required out of the account.” It was nice to have an account out of which to pay any fees required. Solvency felt better than I ever thought it would.

“What should they do if they find it?” she asked.

“Just have them grab it and hold it for me. I’ll decide then.”

I was behind my desk when Beth came in. “Don’t ask,” I said in response to her query.

“Did you fall down the steps?” she asked.

“Something like that.”

“Were you drinking last night?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Are you having a problem?”

“Yes, but not with my drinking.”

“If you’re having a problem there are people you can see.”

“Stop it, Beth. With what I drink I’d die from hypoglycemia before I became an alcoholic.”

“That eye looks nasty,” she said. “Let me get you something.” She left the office for a moment, coming back with a wet paper towel. “Now close your eyes.”