There are other snow machines lined up on the bank outside the old hotel. Heavy gray smoke pours out from three different chimneys. Inside, it’s warm and I can smell cinnamon and burning wood. Russo greets us with a clap of his hands. He wears a green sweater with a line of white reindeers knit across the front. His pale neck sticks out of the collar like a broomstick. The veins in his big nose and even his protruding ears are angry from alcohol and his breath smells like cheap scotch.

“Gentlemen,” he says, rubbing his hands together, “we’ve been expecting you. Good ride over?”

When he sees my Ferragamo shoes crusted with snow, he raises his eyebrows, chuckles, and says, “There’s a fire around the corner. If you want to give me your credit card, I’ll get you checked in.”

Bert takes four one-hundred-dollar-bills out of his wallet and extends them toward Russo. Russo looks up at him and his eyes strain for a moment as if he might have seen Bert before.

“We’ll pay cash,” I say.

“That’s not a problem,” Russo says, returning his eyes to me. He blinks under my gaze. “How should I fill out your registration?”

I flip out a business card between my first two fingers and extend it toward him. He takes the card and examines it.

“Ah, Mr. Bell, an attorney,” he says with a nod before angling his head toward Bert. “And your friend?”

“Put them both under my name,” I say. “I want to talk to you after dinner. About some business.”

Russo’s eyebrows pop up and he touches his fingertips to the knit reindeers.

“In private,” I say. I hand my coat and gloves to Bert, then I turn and walk into the great room whose wainscot walls are shimmering in the firelight.

There is a golden oak bar in the corner opposite the fireplace and a pale scrawny woman stares out at me from behind it with big dark eyes. Her hair is the most animated thing about her, long and frizzy. Dark, but shot through with strands of gray. The other guests, snowmobilers in jeans and sweaters, gaze up at my suit, but return their attention to their drinks as soon as they meet my eyes. I have a drink at the bar, answering the hostess-who is also Russo’s wife-in short sentences until she excuses herself to see to the dinner.

Bert and I eat our overcooked pot roast in silence. The dining room overlooks the frozen lake. In the winter moonlight, we can see it and the naked mountains beyond through the frosted panes of glass. The other guests begin their dinner in a drunken uproar, but by the time Mrs. Russo brings around wedges of store-bought pecan pie, our own solemnity seems to have spread. The loudest sound is the silverware striking the old ceramic plates.

Russo comes out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on an apron and casting a worried glance our way before disappearing in the direction of the great room. Bert presses his lips tight and wags his head and we get up and follow our host. Halfway down the hall, there is an open door and we step into a snug office where a fire crackles and Russo sits at a round oak table smoking a Marlboro Light.

“If you don’t mind,” Bert rumbles, “Mr. Bell doesn’t like smoke.”

I stare at Russo until he stabs out the cigarette in a ceramic ashtray, blows the smoke out of the corner of his mouth, and says, “No problem.”

I set my briefcase down on the table and sit opposite Russo. Bert quietly closes the door and remains standing there.

“Does… he want to sit down?” Russo asks.

“We’re fine,” I say, flipping the latches and opening the case so that the cover prevents Russo from seeing the money and the gun. “Mr. Russo, I am here for a client who might want to give you some money.”

“Money? For what?” he says, his eyes darting to Bert and back.

“For some information,” I say. “About a man named Raymond White.”

The blood drains from Russo’s face. In a whisper, he says, “Raymond was a friend.”

“That’s what I understand,” I say. “My client wants to know more about what happened to Mr. White. They were in prison together and Mr. White saved my client’s life. Unfortunately, Mr. White was killed during an attempted escape.”

“He’s dead?”

“Yes,” I say.

“I didn’t hear that,” he says, with his brow furrowed. “I heard they thought he was, but I never heard that he was.”

“And my client would like to do something for the people closest to Mr. White,” I say. “Mr. White mentioned you several times… as a friend.”

“Oh, I was,” he says. “Raymond…”

He shakes his head. “What they did to him… goddamn.”

“But you knew he was framed,” I say. “You knew what Frank Steffano and Bob Rangle did.”

“He told you?”

“He told my client.”

Russo puts his round flat face into his hand.

“I should have said something,” he says. “I know. I was drunk back then. Pretty much all the time. I didn’t really think they meant it, and when I…”

Russo looks up at me with red eyes and says, “I’m telling you the truth. I was scared. I still am. Of them.”

“What about his father?” I ask. “Weren’t you supposed to help him? I read that he died. They turned off his power. My client was told that you were supposed to help Raymond’s father.”

“Oh, I did,” he says. “Are you kidding? At least I tried. That old… he wasn’t easy. He didn’t want my help or anyone’s.”

“How do you know that?”

“There was a girl,” he says. “Lexis. I don’t know how much you know.”

“Go on.”

“She was Raymond’s girl. Then, after everything, she married Frank.”

“The man who-”

“Yeah, well, she had a baby boy,” he says. “I just know she came to me with money. A lot. She asked me to give it to the father, but that old crab-ass…

“He wouldn’t listen. He wouldn’t take anything from anyone. Raymond, he was a stubborn son of a bitch and it wasn’t hard to see where it came from.”

“Why are you still afraid?” I ask.

“Do you know who those guys are?” he says, tilting his head just a touch.

“A cop who did well in business,” I say. “A politician who cashed in on Wall Street.”

“Ha, well in business?” he says. “That Frank, he cut people’s nuts off who got in his way. Got involved with the big boys down in Atlantic City. Owns some casinos and hotels and shit.

“Well? He’s gotta be worth a hundred million and Rangle’s probably worth even more. Some fund manager or something and he didn’t take any prisoners either, I can promise you that. Two very big men. Dangerous to your health, even a fancy lawyer like you.”

“And things haven’t gone that good for you,” I say, looking around.

“Yeah, well, it’s not so bad. Little cold in the winter.”

I look into the blaze of the fire and nod slowly.

“Aw, who the fuck am I kidding?” he says. “It sucks. If I don’t have like a convention of snowmobilers every day for the next two months, the fucking bank will probably take this shithole. Maybe do me a favor. I’m thinking about starting a rumor of a ghost. Sometimes that draws people in.”

“You deal drugs too,” I say, locking my eyes onto his.

“Hey, who the fuck are you, coming in here?” he says sitting straight and scowling down his nose, but his eyes flicker nervously up at Bert.

“There was another man,” I say, ignoring the flare in his nostrils. “His name was Dan Parsons.”

“Yeah, makes me look like King fucking Solomon,” he says, fidgeting with his pack of Marlboros.

“Meaning?”

“Got kicked out of his own fucking law firm,” Russo says. “Big fucking deal. Parsons amp; Trout. Dan Parsons this. Dan Parsons that. Oh, they paid him, but they wanted him out. His own firm. Didn’t do a damn thing but file appeals for Raymond White. Went a little batshit, I guess. Then he took every fuckin’ penny he had and got into that dotcom bullshit. Made a fuckin’ fortune, then lost a fuckin’ fortune. Uncle Sam-as in IRS-didn’t get their cut on the upside and last I heard the barbarians were at the gate.”