Shane raises his open hands to show he means no harm. “Furthest thing from my mind. All I want is talk. Your boss is in trouble, maybe you can help.”

Egg man closes his eyes and curses, uttering a few suggestions I’ve never before heard applied to human beings. Then he opens the eyes—amazingly puffy eyelids, blinking must be like lifting weights—and goes, pleading to heaven, “How do I get into this shit?”

“Look,” says Shane, sounding conciliatory. “It’s obvious that your boss has lost control of the situation. He’s afraid to call in the cops, make it official? Fine. I’m not the cops. I’m private. And we have exactly the same goal, the safe return of Seth and Kelly. We can cooperate, help each other out.”

“I dunno,” says the egg man, not looking at either one of us. “These people are just plain nuts. You see what they just did to Mr. Manning? He owns the joint and they treat him like shit.”

The guy rubs his shaved, chunk-o’-cheese head and squints, as if looking for a way to escape the range of Shane’s long arms. But Shane mirrors his moves and keeps him cornered without ever having to actually touch him.

“Who did this?” Shane asks, persisting. “Who took Seth and Kelly?”

The egg man sighs, giving the impression that not only does he want to avoid any sort of physical confrontation, he also knows he’s way out of his depth and really could use some help.

“I work the casinos, you know? Like a bouncer, only I get paid better. My so-called career in the ring, all it ever gave me was a face that scares some people. Not you obviously, and not so much you, either, Miss Whoever-you-are.”

“Jane Garner,” I remind him. “What happened to Seth Manning? Is he still alive? Is my daughter still alive?”

He shrugs, the kind of whole-body shrug that can only be deployed by those born and raised in the part of New Jersey that lies a bridge or tunnel away from New York City. “If I knew I’d tell you, honest. Come on, think I’d hold out on a worried mom? I ain’t that kind of guy.”

“What do you know, Mr. Popkin?”

“Call me Sally, please,” the man says. He seems relieved that I’m asking the questions at the moment, rather than Shane, who looms over both of us, exuding energetic patience. “I been Sally Pop all my life, that’s what I’m used to. What do I know? Less every day. But I do know Mr. Manning is in trouble, big trouble, and he don’t know what to do. All his money, that don’t seem to be helping.”

“Who did it, Sally? Who took Seth?”

Sally the egg man studies me, makes up his mind. “What I heard between the lines, it’s some crazy big-shot Indian everybody’s scared of. But I’m guessing, you know? ‘Cause Mr. Manning, he don’t share with me. Not specific to names he don’t.”

“You sure about that?” Shane interjects. “No name?”

“I told you, he don’t share,” the egg man says indignantly. He’s tottering heel-to-toe on his Nike running shoes, gathering himself for a move or maybe looking for a way to regain his dignity. “I told you something,” he says to Shane. “Now you tell me something, awright? How the hell did you know we’d be here? You’re a New York guy.”

Shane chuckles. “I’m an everywhere guy, Sally. Seriously, you’re not that hard to find. I followed the money and here we are. You’re in charge of Mr. Manning’s security, is that correct?”

“Yeah, for the moment,” he says, jutting out his chin with pride and defiance. “So what?”

“So you better get out there and help calm him down before he gets arrested,” Shane says, indicating the commotion that has continued out into the parking lot. “And if you want to do your boss a big favor, have him call me. I can help. No cops, no FBI, and no charge. Just someone very discreet who has done this before.”

“You, huh?”

Shane tucks a business card into Sally the egg man’s pocket.

“Me,” he says. “Go on, get out there and help the poor man.”

Under the brutal, incandescent sun, Edwin Manning seems to have recovered the gift of language. Dumped from the chair to his own two feet, he stands his ground like a belligerent little general, reading the riot act to the squad of Nakosha security goons who ejected him from the casino complex.

“Are you people completely stupid?” he demands, strutting the hot pavement. He adjusts his striped club tie, squares his shoulders. “What happens when the money dries up? What happens when the casino closes? What happens when the federal government revisits your tribal status? You really think you can get away with protecting a monster? You think you’re above all laws? You think you can walk away from this? No, no, the world doesn’t work that way. You made this man, this beast, you can’t deny your responsibility. You can’t pretend he’s no longer yours.”

But they do walk away, without acknowledging his pleas and threats. To them Manning is simply white noise in a tailored suit.

Having been abandoned by the Nakosha goon squad, he’s left with his own. Sally Pop approaches the boss like he’s a live grenade, imparts some comment to which Manning reacts with cold fury, shouting, “No! I told you, no! Absolutely not!”

Shane and I have been taking all this in from a distance, but at the moment Sally retreats, Manning looks up, searching the parking lot. He’s drawn quite an audience, entertainment for the curious, the bored and the broke, but he spots us immediately. More likely he spots Shane rising above the herd and I’m just part of the package.

He stares at us with eyes that have the charm and welcome of black holes sucking all light from the universe, and shakes his head firmly.

No, no, a zillion times no. The absolute zero of no.

17. Quantum Physics

When the show is over and the burnt-orange Hummer has exited the parking lot, Randall Shane decides the time has come for straight talk.

“Coffee?” he asks. “Can we sit down, take a load off?”

His client remains agitated, wanting to do something, anything. As if perpetual motion means not having to think about the possibility of it all ending badly. “Aren’t we going to follow them?” she asks plaintively.

“No point,” Shane tells her gently. “I’ll buy you a coffee and tell you why.”

“I don’t need a coffee,” she says, still eyeing the exit road where the Hummer vanished.

“We need to sit,” he insists.

Together they reenter the casino complex, where business has resumed, pretty much as if nothing had happened. Which Shane thinks may be close to the truth. Just beyond the giant phony tiki hut he finds a pseudo-Starbucks, scores a tall, no sugar, for himself and a bottled water for Mrs. Garner. Want it or not, she needs to hydrate, if only to replenish the tears. Not that she’s blubbering or complaining or throwing herself on his willing shoulder. Just weeping silent rivers that drip from the cute little cleft in her chin.

“This is so messed up,” she says, accepting the bottle of water.

“Agreed.”

“A man like that flips out, it must be really bad.”

“It’s not good,” he concedes.

“Kelly’s already dead,” she says miserably. “That’s what kidnappers do. I knew that, I just didn’t want to think about it, you know?”

He clears his throat and says, “Look at me, Jane.”

Wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand, she studies him with glistening eyes.

“When there’s no hope, I’ll let you know,” he promises. “Good, bad or tragic, I’ll tell you the truth. We’re not there yet.”

“But you gave up,” she reminds him. “You didn’t follow them.”

“Because the action is right here,” he says, tapping his finger on the laminate of little café table. “Manning was on a mission—he wanted information or cooperation, or both—and they blew him off. The interesting thing is that it wasn’t casino security that chucked him out, it was the tribe. Called in from outside. They have adequate security in place, uniforms working for the casino, so why bring in the tribal heavies, armed with carbines?”