I nod my head and sigh.

“That sounds reasonable,” I say. “And while you’re at it, there’s something I’d like to do… for Allen.”

“Of course,” Rangle says, “he can get in at whatever level he wants. There’s no million-dollar minimum for a friend of yours, Seth. You know you don’t even have to ask, just tell me.”

“It’s not about the fund,” I say. “That’s too obvious. In fact, I want this entirely between you and me. Charity isn’t charity unless it’s anonymous. I want to help him indirectly. I understand his father is looking for an investor in his company.”

“He’s been looking,” Rangle says, twisting his lips. “And there’s a reason he hasn’t found one. That’s not for you, Seth. Very sketchy. Casinos. Hotels. In his mind if he can sell his partnerships, he can get into the Friars Club.”

“It wouldn’t be me,” I say. “But I have a friend who represents a group of Native Americans. They’ve got some casinos upstate and they want to get into Atlantic City. I was thinking I could put him in touch with Frank’s partners. Not even go through Frank. Buy his interests out and they all live happily ever after.”

“You’ll be the first person on the planet who wanted to do a favor for Frank Steffano,” Rangle said.

“I thought you were old friends,” I say.

“That’s a strong word,” Rangle says. “Frank is a pompous goombah. All this casino stuff has gone to his head, not to mention his ass. Wears a goddamned diamond pinky ring.”

“I’d really do it for Allen,” I say with a shrug.

Rangle writes something on a piece of paper and hands it across the desk to me.

“Ramo Capozza?” I say, looking at him.

“He’s out on Staten Island. Calls himself a businessman. A casino owner. Frank helped out his nephew when he was in some trouble up in Syracuse. Frank likes to tell everyone they were business partners in a development company, but he was a cop and I heard they ran a book until the nephew got murdered.”

“Think Ramo’s a football fan?”

“His business is gambling,” Rangle says.

“The first preseason game is next Friday,” I say.

“There you go.”

“So, how do I get in touch with him?”

“Actually,” Rangle says, picking up the phone. “My lawyer that just called me? He knows Capozza’s lawyer…”

Five minutes later I have a number.

I THANK RANGLE and head uptown. I’m meeting Dean Villay for dinner at Patroon. After a week, I grew weary of watching him suffer every night. Instead, I get a report every morning from Lawrence. Two days ago, he said Villay was very close, so I wanted to see him in person. The maître d’ shows me to a round high-backed leather booth. Villay looks up from his glass. I can smell the scotch. I extend my hand and notice that his is trembling, damp, and cold.

“Thank you for meeting with me,” I say. I slide into the soft seat and the maître d’ puts a linen napkin in my lap.

Villay’s curly hair is matted. He is wearing a suit, but the knot on his tie is crooked and has been pulled loose. His eyes are red-rimmed, puffy, and moist, and there are several scabs on the side of his face. He picks at one of them and says, “I still want it.”

“I’m sorry?” I say, tilting my head. The sounds of the restaurant are muted.

The waiter appears and I order a sparkling water with lime and another scotch-a double-for the judge. Somewhere by the darkened windows a table of people laugh together, then break out in polite clapping that quickly fades.

The shoulders of Villay’s jacket are sprinkled with flakes of dandruff. He goes to work on a different scab and leans toward me, whispering.

“The Supreme Court. I don’t care about her,” he says. The ragged edges of his pupils gape open. “I care about Oliver Wendell Holmes. I want that. Think. Harlan, Rehnquist, Brennan. Great justices that no one but law students remember. And Holmes was known for his dissents. Opinions that didn’t even become law. The law is malleable. People don’t understand that. She doesn’t.”

“I felt bad that the weekend didn’t turn out,” I say. “And I wanted to check on you.”

Villay finishes his drink and smoothes out a wrinkle in the heavy linen tablecloth before clenching his empty hands.

“You know there’s nothing they can do?” he says, looking up at me through the tops of his eyes. “They complain about me. Say there’s something wrong…”

He pounds the table, jarring the silverware, and says, “Of course there’s something wrong. That’s everyone. We all have secrets. Don’t we? But I am appointed for life. No one can touch me. Even she can’t take it.”

As the waiter sets down the drinks, Villay picks at another scab. He winces and examines his finger. A crimson smear. His knee jiggles under the table. His eyes dart from side to side.

“You’re having trouble?” I say, squeezing the lime into my glass and taking a sip. Another waiter goes by with plates of steaks still sputtering from the grill, leaving a scented trail of seared meat.

Villay leans forward again, grabbing the new drink, whispering. “There should be a law against the jealousy of women. Now that would be jurisprudence. That would be helpful. They’re like cats. Bitter. Unforgiving. Relentless. Goddamn fucking demons.”

“You have a beautiful wife,” I say.

“She sleeps,” he says. “Beautiful, but do you think she feels? Do you think it even affects her? We went to that house… and she sleeps... but she caused it all to begin with.”

“Dean,” I say. “You need to rest.”

“Ha!” he shouts, and people turn to stare. Villay leans close again, lowering his voice. “That’s the last thing I need. I need Holmes. I need to write laws that squeeze the hordes into small spaces and cull them like a reaper.”

I leave a hundred-dollar bill on the table and get up.

“Where are you going?” Villay shrieks, licking his lips and hugging himself so hard that he rocks forward.

I look down on him, smile, and say, “You’ve lost your mind, old friend.”

“What friend? Are you giving it to me?” he says loudly, then puts a knuckle in his mouth and clamps down. Those oddly torn pupils widen, then contract.

The maître d’ appears beside me and says, “Is everything all right, sir?”

“Fine,” I say, tossing my napkin down on the seat. “Everything is just right.”

WHEN MY CAR PULLS INTO THE GATE of my Fifth Avenue home, I raise my eyebrows at the sight of Andre’s red Ferrari. My reports on Andre are that he spends every minute with Dani Rangle. She is showing him Manhattan in a big way. They drink rare champagne, eat gold-covered sushi, dance all night, and snort generous amounts of cocaine. Sometimes an expensive call girl will join them to finish things off at his flat.

Against my advice, Allen didn’t give up on Dani entirely and there was a scene at the China Club, where she threw a drink at him and Andre threatened to break his neck. Martin and some other friends dragged Allen out and that was the last of it, but it seemed to fuel the fire between Andre and Dani even more. Still, I know Andre hasn’t run out of money, even though he’s doing a good job trying, so I can’t imagine what would bring him here.

A servant opens my limo door before I can. I straighten the edges of my suit coat and readjust my tie knot as I walk up the broad marble stairs and into the cavernous foyer. Bert is waiting by the stairs, his eyes on the arched doors to the library.

“The dog leg?” I say, angling my head toward the doors.

Bert pinches his lips, nods, and says, “Better than that. Your old friend is with him.”

“Russo?”

“The scarecrow-face himself. Birds of a feather.”

“Where’s the girl?”

Bert shrugs and falls in behind me. I take a deep breath and exhale before opening the door.

Russo is sitting on the couch in front of my desk. Gone is his flap of hair. A shadow of razor stubble extends from his face all around the fringes of his round dome. He is thin and pale, and his shoulders have all but collapsed. He’s dressed in ratty jeans, a Rolling Stones T-shirt, and a black knit cap that pushes those ears out even farther. His Adam’s apple jerks up and down in his neck and his bulging eyes dart back and forth between Andre and me. The insides of his arms are spotted with tiny bruises.