“Congratulations,” says the bartender as he lines up eleven martinis side by side. “Have another on the house.” “No thanks,” says the senator. “If ten don’t wipe out the taste of all the dick I’ve been sucking, I don’t think eleven will either.”

Or something like that.

Kyle was waiting for the senator in a booth, alone. But not entirely alone. There was Skitch at the bar, throwing dice with Old Tommy Trapp while keeping an eye on things. And Kat was parked in a car across the street, ready to call the police if something looked fishy. And there was Bubba Jr. himself, unhappy as hell that Kyle had volunteered his place for the meeting, but behind the bar all the same, with his shotgun oiled and loaded. They were all there just in case the senator had ideas of being a bit too clever.

And of course when did a senator ever not think himself a bit too clever?

The senator walked into the bar with a hesitant step, like a tenderfoot walking into a Wild West saloon, ready to duck if a spittoon were hurled at his head. While he looked around, Bubba and Skitch made an effort not to stare, but Old Tommy Trapp couldn’t help himself.

“Pussy,” said Old Tommy, in a whisper loud enough to have been heard in Cleveland.

Kyle raised a hand and nodded Truscott over to his booth. The senator swiveled his head guiltily, before slipping into the bench seat across from Kyle.

“Are you Kyle?”

Kyle nodded.

“Pleased to meet you, Kyle,” said the senator, smiling and holding out his hand as if the bar were a campaign stop. “I knew your father.”

Kyle looked at the proffered hand for a moment. It was the hand that had burned down his mother’s house. It was the hand that had tried to kill his father, sending him into exile and Kyle’s life into a tailspin. That it had also raped Colleen O’Malley and killed both her and Laszlo Toth were other, less personal reasons to let the hand hang there, its offer of reciprocal respect unreciprocated. “Can we get to it?” said Kyle.

“A man of purpose, is that it? Not unlike your father in that. Though not as I expected. Malcolm said you were—how did he put it?—‘a slacker dude.’ ”

“I slack with purpose, too,” said Kyle. “You k now that my mother’s house was burned down just two nights ago.”

“No, I didn’t. I’m sorry.” Pause, the fake political concern in his eyes replaced quickly with real concern, maybe even a touch of fear. “Wait, not that thing in Havertown with the fireworks?”

“That’s the one.”

“My gosh, I didn’t know it was yours.”

“Tell me about it,” said Kyle. “Before it burned down around me—”

“You were inside?”

“Can we not play our little games?” said Kyle. “The ‘My gosh’ and the ‘I didn’t know’? Before you set the fire—”

“You have it wrong,” said the senator, interrupting him calmly. “I didn’t set any fire, or have any fire set. I wasn’t involved, and I’m sorry about what happened. Was it arson? Are you sure? The papers said it might have been an accident. That maybe there was a cache of fireworks hidden in the property.”

“It wasn’t an accident. Check it out if you want to be sure. But what I’m trying to say is that before the fire I found an old file cabinet of my father’s hidden behind some drywall in the basement. And in the cabinet I found the file. The one you’ve been running from most of your life.”

“You mentioned the O’Malley file to Malcolm. Is that what you’re referring to?”

“That’s right. The one that shows conclusively that you raped the O’Malley girl when you were eighteen.”

Tr uscot t w inced.

“The one with her notarized affidavit inside,” said Kyle. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To make the file disappear?”

“No, actually.”

Kyle tilted his head. “It’s not?”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Kyle, but you can keep the file. Do whatever you want with it.”

Kyle examined the senator carefully, trying to find the trick. Because there had to be a trick. All the uproar and death over the file had to be coming from this one powerful man. So his nonchalance had to be a trick. But there was something in the senator’s face, a sort of rueful weariness that seemed to belie the possibility that any confidence game was going on. It was as if he really didn’t care.

“You don’t want the O’Malley file?”

“No.”

“But if I turn it over to the press . . .”

“Then I probably will be seen by the world as a rapist unless I challenge the affidavit. Which I won’t.”

“So it’s true.”

“No, it’s not true.”

Kyle just stared at the man. Nothing was making sense. “If it’s not true, I don’t understand why you wouldn’t contest it.”

“Let me ask you something, Kyle. Was your life ever planned out for you? Did you have dreams that you were supposed to fulfill, even though they weren’t your dreams?”

“My mom wasn’t the type to plan anyone’s life, even her own, and my father wasn’t around.”

“Then you were lucky.”

“Screw you. I didn’t have a father because of you.”

“Because of me?”

“That’s what I said.”

“I think you’re gravely mistaken. But what you did have, Kyle, was a clean slate. A chance to invent yourself. I never had that. You know what I always had? A future. Italicized and with a capital F. My Future. It was a beast that consumed everything. Every school I went to, every course I took, every girl I dated and job I accepted was only fodder to be fed to the beast. No youthful folly allowed, no mistakes. ‘Think of your Future,’ I was told over and again. ‘Consider your Future.’ And now I’m in the middle of it all, with the brightest part yet to come, and it doesn’t seem so damn capital anymore.”

“You want me to be sympathetic, is that it? You want me to feel pity for the poor rich senator?”

“No. I want you to be a little grateful for what you did have. And I want you to show at least a little respect.”

“Go to hell.”

“Yeah, well, it’s happening sooner rather than later. You asked for this meeting, and now here I am. Tell me, Kyle, what were you going to ask for?”

Kyle looked carefully at the man across from him and saw something in his eyes. Concern? For Kyle? Son of a bitch must be a hell of a politician, because Kyle almost believed it.

“I was going to . . . you know . . . I was going to trade it for . . .”