“I’d guess a gentleman like you knows everyone worth knowing in this town.”

“You give me too much credit. But I keep my eyes open.”

“The town’s high rollers, could you name them?”

The manager’s face clouded. “I’m not sure what you’re asking.”

“Well, say we wanted to throw a party for the men who matter in Futurity Station. Who would be the first five names on the list?”

“Is this—are you actually planning such a party?”

“Remains to be seen,” Jesse said.

“Well. Five names? I would have to say … Karl Knudsen, who holds leases on half the properties on Lookout. Billy Mingus, the restaurateur. A shop owner, Elbert Onslow. Casper Brigham, if I have to name another hotelier. Oh, and of course Marcus Frane. Mr. Frane would be at the top of the list.”

“Marcus Frane?”

“He owns the Stadium of Tomorrow.”

“Does Mr. Frane live in town?”

“He winters in Chicago but he’s usually here until the end of September. He stays at the Dunston House when he’s not supervising the show.”

“Can we find him at the stadium, if we want to talk to him?”

“This time of day, almost certainly.”

“Thank you,” Jesse said, standing. “That’s all very helpful.”

“You’re welcome. About this party—”

“We’ll let you know if we need to make arrangements.”

*   *   *

The manager was wrong. Marcus Frane wasn’t at the Stadium of Tomorrow. The ticket-taker directed them to the Deluxe Barber Shop on Depot Street, where Frane was holding court with a half dozen cronies.

Or thugs, Jesse thought. More thugs than cronies by the look of them. Their presence suggested that Frane was the right person to talk to, though possibly dangerous.

Elizabeth came into the barber shop with Jesse, which made everyone sit up and stare. Frane’s men occupied all the chairs, but only Frane was getting service. After a long moment the barber whipped away a cotton bib as if he were unveiling a statue, and Frane wiped his face and gave Jesse and Elizabeth a long, thoughtful look.

“We’d like to have a word with you,” Jesse said.

Frane was a big man, neither very young nor very old, strong and confident in his body. He stood up. “I’m afraid we haven’t been introduced.”

“We’re from the City.”

“Is that so?”

Elizabeth spoke up: “Yes. That’s so.”

In this case, her frankness was as good as a calling card. Frane asked the barber to take a break. He told his boys to wait outside. The doors creaked closed. The shop seemed suddenly larger. Sunlight striking bottles of pomade made rainbows on the ceiling. “I don’t have any beef with the City,” Frane said. “Does the City have a beef with me?”

“I’d say the City does pretty well by you,” Jesse said. “It flies the airship that puts paying customers on those bleachers of yours every day.”

“What of it?”

“Given how much you benefit from the City, we hoped you’d be willing to do the City a favor in return.”

Frane paused long enough to take a cigar from his pocket and trim it and light it. “What kind of favor?”

“We both know this town runs on contraband. Men like Elbert Onslow make their entire living from it.”

“Is this about Onslow?”

“In a way.”

“So go talk to him. I don’t deal in contraband, and I don’t have much to do with Elbert Onslow.”

Though you drink with him, Jesse thought. Jesse was fairly sure Frane had been one of Onslow’s companions in the saloon last night. “Mr. Onslow might be reluctant to tell us what we want to know.”

“I don’t see how that concerns me.”

“Mr. Frane, has the City ever interfered in your business?”

“No—”

“No, nor has it interfered in Onslow’s business. What goes on in this town doesn’t always please us, but our attitude is live and let live. Everybody gets along and everybody makes money. As long as everything stays within certain limits. The trouble is, Onslow overstepped those bounds. He’s been buying from someone who shouldn’t be selling, and we want to know the name of the person he’s dealing with.”

“Ask Onslow.”

“He has every reason not to tell us. The City isn’t the law here. What Onslow’s doing is underhanded, but it isn’t illegal. We can’t easily dispossess him and we’re too civilized to burn his shop down. All we want to know is who he buys his guns from.”

Elizabeth gave Jesse a sharp look. He probably shouldn’t have mentioned guns. But it had the desired effect on Frane, who grew more serious. “If Onslow’s selling guns, I don’t know anything about it.”

“But you can find out. And when you do find out, you can tell us.”

“Are you drunk? Onslow’s not stupid—if he won’t talk to you, he won’t talk to me.”

“We think you’re wrong. We think he’d be willing to share the information on a friendly basis, if you ask him politely. Or you can be impolite and unfriendly, if the first approach fails.”

“You want me to intimidate a fellow businessman, for no better reason than that you’re unwilling to intimidate him yourself?”

“You seem like just the man who could do it.”

Frane drew himself up to his full height. He had the thick hands and scarred knuckles of a brawler, and his nose had been broken at least once. Jesse had seen plenty of men like Frane in San Francisco, men who had prised gold out of mountains and imagined themselves transformed into imperial powers. Men who wore silk hats and pissed in the street. “I’m not your servant,” Frane said. “Do your own dirty work.”

Jesse could see Elizabeth’s impatience in her face. She was itching to speak. But she had agreed to let him handle this. “I remind you again,” Jesse said, “we represent the City of Futurity.”

“Maybe so, but you don’t own my land, you don’t own my bleachers, and you don’t own the bright blue sky. I’m not about to strong-arm Onslow just because some hired bull strutted in here with the word ‘City’ on his lips.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way.”

“And I’m sorry you’re blocking my sunlight.”

*   *   *

“What the fuck!” Elizabeth exclaimed as the door swung shut behind her. One of Frane’s henchmen overheard her and laughed derisively. Jesse steered her farther down the sidewalk.

“You’re attracting attention.”

“Does it matter? Before midnight, everyone in town will know we’re City operatives.”

An operative, Jesse thought—is that what I am? “Before midnight we’ll probably have what we came for.”

“And what leads you to that conclusion?”

“Yesterday at the bleachers you mentioned Vijay.”

“Sandeep Vijay, the helicopter pilot—what about him?”

“He’s a friend of yours, you said.”

“We’re not best buds, but I know him.”

“You have your phone. Can you call him?”

“Sure, but why would I— Oh.” She paused. Jesse was gratified to see the smile that evolved on her lips. “Yeah, I can talk to Vijay.”

*   *   *

They took a midday meal at the Excelsior. Because there was nothing to do but wait, the conversation grew halting and awkward. Jesse was silent much of the time, casting glances through the window. President Grant had left the City this morning, and a little before noon a crowd of gawkers and newsmen had descended on the train station to look at him. Grant had waved at the crowd but said nothing—it had taken a gunshot to silence the eloquent Lincoln, but Grant was mute as a crawfish.

Then the depot had reverted to its customary business. Later today a convoy of twenty-first-century visitors would be escorted onto a City train bound for a week-long tour of Manhattan. Of Futurity Station they would experience nothing but its pervasive odor—like an outhouse on a summer afternoon, Jesse thought, a mingled perfume of shit and slaked lime, which even Jesse found galling, though he wouldn’t give Elizabeth the satisfaction of hearing him say so.

He had taken delivery of his copy of The Shining from the store on Depot Street. It sat on the table now, and Elizabeth pointed at it with her spoon: “Are you actually going to read that?”