Joey, still half-blinded by the oversized Mets eyeglasses, suffered in silence. The Pirates were down four runs after four innings, and he was ready to leave. Kyle eventually re-shifted, and began studying the scoreboard in center field. “Any word from Baxter?” he said without moving his jaws.

“Nothing. I think they’ve locked him in a cave.”

“I know the feeling. I’ve been in a dungeon all week.”

“I don’t want to hear it. For the money they’re paying you, no complaints.”

“Okay, okay. They know that he’s in rehab, and they probably know where he is,” Kyle said as a long fly ball was caught on the warning track.

“They?”

“The goons. Their leader told me last week that he’s in rehab.”

“How often do you meet with this guy?”

“Too often.”

“Have you handed over any secrets?”

“Nope. I have not been compromised.”

Joey sipped his beer, swallowed slowly, and with the cup in front of his mouth said, “If they know about Baxter, are they keeping tabs on me?”

“It’s possible. Play it safe. Vary your movements. Be careful with all correspondence.”

“Oh, this is just great.”

“My apartment is full of cameras and mikes. They come and go when they wish. I don’t have an alarm system, don’t want one, but I know when they’ve been there. Everything I do in my apartment is subject to being watched and recorded. But they don’t know that I know, so I give them nothing of consequence.”

“So you’re outsmarting these professional intelligence agents?”

“I think so.”

Another long pause in the conversation as the Pirates changed pitchers again.

“What’s the endgame, Kyle?”

“I don’t have one. I’m taking small, safe steps. Next, we make contact with the girl and see how bad things are there.”

“Pretty bad, I’d guess.”

“Let’s see.”

Kyle reached for his vibrating pocket and yanked out the Firm-Fone. He scrolled down, found the message, and felt like cursing. “What is it?” Joey asked, trying not to look at the phone.

“It’s a partner. He’s got a project. Wants me at the office at seven in the morning.”

“Tomorrow’s Saturday, Kyle.”

“Just another day at the office.”

“Are these guys crazy?”

“No, just greedy.”

During the seventh-inning stretch, Kyle eased out of his seat and made his way to the gates. Joey stayed until the eighth, and finally he left as his beloved Pirates were losing their ninetieth game.

JEANS WERE ALLOWED on Saturdays and Sundays. The fact that there was a dress code for the weekend, however relaxed, said much about the practice of corporate law on Wall Street.

Why were they even there?

Kyle wore jeans, as did Dale, who looked spectacular in a pair of tight ones. Tim Reynolds wore starched khakis. All three were dazed at the reality of being in a small conference room on the thirty-fourth floor at 7:00 a.m. on the second Saturday of their fledgling careers. They joined four older associates, four young men Kyle had not had the pleasure of meeting or even seeing during his first two weeks on the job. Passing introductions were made, but only because they were expected.

The partner who had called the meeting was nowhere to be seen. His name was Tobias Roland, Toby behind his back, and of all the sizzling gossip Kyle had heard so far, the worst had been about Toby. Toby stories were abundant, and very few were even remotely flattering. Yale undergrad, Columbia Law, poor kid from a rough neighborhood with a gigantic chip on his shoulder. Brilliant, ruthless, conniving, he’d made partner in only five years, primarily because he worked harder than the rest of the workaholics and never relaxed. His idea of time off was a ten-minute tryst with a secretary on the sofa in his office. Most secretaries were terrified of him, too frightened to complain or file suit. Some, though, found him sexy enough for a quick romp. For fun he berated young associates, often cursing them in the foulest of language for the smallest of infractions. He intimidated the other partners because he was smarter and always better prepared. At the age of forty-four, he was the top-producing (billing) litigator in the firm and had not lost a jury trial in eight years. Toby was in demand by the in-house lawyers of many major corporations. A year earlier, Kyle had read and clipped an article in Fortune touting the greatness of Scully & Pershing’s “fanciest litigator.”

When Toby beckoned, you went running, albeit with a great deal of trepidation.

In his place that morning was a senior associate named Bronson, who, as he explained without a trace of enthusiasm, was standing in for Mr. Roland, who was just down the hall working on another aspect of the lawsuit at hand. He might pop in at any moment, and this prospect kept everyone wide awake.

Their client was a major oil company that was about to be sued by a Dutch firm over some disputed reserves in the Gulf of Mexico. The lawsuit was expected to be filed in New Orleans, but Mr. Roland had decided to file a preemptive lawsuit in New York. The plan was to file it first thing Monday morning. It was an ambush, a daring tactic that could backfire, the type of risky maneuver that Toby was famous for.

After a few minutes of listening to a lawsuit described in terms reminiscent of the D-day invasion, Kyle realized that his Saturday and Sunday were shot to hell and would be spent researching jurisdictional issues in the law library. He glanced at his FirmFone, scrolled down through the e-mails, and something caught his eye. At 7:30 on a Saturday morning, the firm was sending an e-mail to all lawyers announcing the resignation of Gavin Meade, a fourth-year associate in litigation. No details. No comments. Nothing but a quiet and quick exit.

Everybody has secrets, Bennie said. How did he do it? Perhaps an anonymous package mailed to someone in Human Resources. Affidavits, police records, the works. Poor Meade, ten years removed from his crime and hustling through the grind at $400,000 a year, when suddenly he gets a summons to a meeting with closed doors.

Bronson was rattling on about being the hub of a wooden wheel, with spokes running down and out to the seven associates below him, and several running upward to Mr. Roland and the other litigation partners. At the hub, he, Bronson, would direct traffic between the big boys and the rookies. He would organize the work, supervise the research, and handle correspondence with the partners. Everything crossed his desk.

Time was crucial. If word leaked, the Dutch firm and its lawyers might do all sorts of evil things. The nation’s oil supply hung in the balance, perhaps even Western civilization.

Off they went to the library.

After a series of phone calls that became more and more tense, a deal was finally reached. Dr. Boone and Uncle Wally acquiesced, but managed to keep one string attached. Baxter would leave early, but spend three nights in a halfway house in Reno before “reentry” into the real world. A hundred and five days after arriving sloppy drunk, with a blood alcohol content of 0.28, and with significant residues of cocaine in his system, Baxter rode through the gates and left behind the safety of the Washoe Retreat. He was squeaky-clean and ten pounds lighter, and not only had he kicked booze and drugs, he had also quit smoking. He was fit, tanned, and clearheaded and thoroughly believed he had conquered his demons and would henceforth live the sober life. He was armed for battle with the teachings of Dr. Boone and the other counselors. He had confessed his sins and surrendered to a higher power, whatever and whoever that was. At the age of twenty-five, he was beginning a new life, and Baxter was both proud and apprehensive, even frightened. As the miles passed, he found himself more uncomfortable. His confidence was rapidly disappearing.