“Ah, yes, I forgot. My successful son.”

“Well, you know I had it tough growing up,” said Kyle, still looking away. “My father died when I was twelve.”

Liam Byrne gripped tightly to the steering wheel with both hands and leaned forward, an old man straining for a better view of the road. “You could use a haircut, too. And a shave. But it’s the clothes we need to do something about first.”

“What’s wrong with my clothes?”

“Look at that T-shirt you’re wearing. Besides the fact that it’s really just a piece of underwear?”

“Yeah, besides that?”

“It’s ripped and stained and smells like smoke. And those things on your legs—”

“Shorts.”

“Yes, well. Enough said about those.”

“My stuff’s a bit ragged from the fire, sure. I mean, last night we were both almost killed, remember? But truthfully, Dad, their condition is not much worse than after one of my normal nights out. I need some fresh underwear and socks, is all. We can go to my friend Kat’s, where I have some stuff, or buy something new. We passed a WalMart just a ways back there.”

“You need more than new socks, boyo. You have a suit, don’t you? I saw you wearing one at Laszlo’s funeral. Was the suit you were wearing there borrowed from Goodwill, or does it belong to you?”

“It’s mine.”

“Excellent, then let’s put it on. For what we need to do today, you’ll want to be wearing a suit.”

“What I have on is fine. It’s what I wear.”

“Here’s a lesson for you, boyo. You dress today for how you want to be perceived tomorrow.”

“That’s what I’m doing.”

“If you want respect, dress like you deserve it. No one gives advancement to a sloven. Don’t you want to be somebody?”

“Sure, somebody who can still get away with dressing in a T-shirt and shorts.”

“Where’s your pride, boyo?”

“I buried it with my father.”

Liam Byrne didn’t respond, he just shifted in his seat and set his jaw. This was the first time in his life Kyle had talked back to his father, and Kyle didn’t like it one bit.

“My style must be too hip for you to appreciate,” said Kyle, injecting a forced lightness into his voice. “It’s the latest in casual bohemian.”

“It’s like you don’t care enough to care.”

“Exactly. I should start a business with that motto: ‘Clothes for the indiscriminating buyer who doesn’t care enough to care.’ ”

“That’s not a style, it’s a sign of resignation.”

“It’s comfortable.”

“And that’s the towering height of achievement you aspire to? Comfort?”

“Sure, why not?”

“Because comfort is for octogenarians in their nursing homes with bibs tied and diapers tight. The rest of us are here to seize what glory we can.”

“Glory? Not very Zen of you, Dad. Glory’s for saps.”

“So you tell me now, as others leapfrog over your head.”

“And what’s it getting them?”

“It’s getting them money and power, the corner office and the new Lexus. It’s getting them laid, boyo.”

“I don’t have any trouble, there.”

“Well, maybe not. You’re a Byrne, after all. But with clothes like that, I’m sure it must be high-class stuff you’re getting. Answer me this, boyo: Five years from now, where do you want to be?”

“On the couch, playing Xbox.”

“That is the saddest thing I ever heard. It’s all the dope you kids smoke. You smoke a boatload, I suppose.”

“Not too much anymore.”

“Waste your mornings with a pipe and a video game and your nights with cheap beer and wanton women.”

“On good days, yeah.”

“Ah, youth. I forgot how stupid it can be.”

“Go to hell.”

“Let me give you some advice about that marijuana. We had it in my day, too, we thought we discovered it. But stay off it, it’s a curse. It kills your ambition, that stuff. It seems like nothing more than a pleasant diversion, and ten years later you’re living in your mother’s house and letting the mortgage lapse.”

“What are you doing, Dad? Trying to jam fourteen years’ worth of parental lectures into one miserable car ride?”

“Somebody needs to set you straight.”

“That was my mom’s job. You left it for her alone, remember? It’s too late for you to get your licks in.”

“You can’t be blaming me for all that’s gone wrong in your life, son.”

“Watch me.”

“What do you want from me, boyo?”

“Maybe to say you’re sorry.”

“I said it already.”

“Funny, I didn’t hear it.”

“Okay, then. I’m sorry about the way it worked out.”

“That’s not quite it, is it?”

“Tell me what exactly it is you want to hear, and I’ll spit it out like a parrot.”

“Forget it.”

“No, tell me.”

“I said forget it.”

“Okay, sure. If that’s what you want. We’re not here to quarrel, we’re here to work together, like a real father and son, to bring some justice to the world.”

“Whatever.”

“Good. Now, about that suit.”

Kyle was dropped off in front of Kat’s apartment building. He took out a key ring from his pocket, looked it over. A key to his old house, now useless. A key to his car, just as useless at the moment. A key to Bubba’s that he forgot to give back when he was fired. His key ring was an eloquent declaration of the pathetic state of his life. The only key that worked was to someone else’s apartment.

Inside, scrawled on a sheet of paper was a message from Kat: CALL ME!!!

He did.

“Kyle, what the hell is happening?” she said. “I thought you were dead. Did you hear about your house?”

“I was there.”

“Shut up. It was all over the news. And what was with the fireworks?”

“I have no idea.”