“Positive.”

“Then what’s my incentive to save the planet?”

“That’s your job this week.” She sipped her drink and stared into the fire. “Well, if the world is going to end, this is a good place to be.”

“Right. So is the Custer Hill Club.”

She nodded.

“Do you play pool?” I asked.

“I have played. But I don’t play well.”

“Sounds like a hustle.” I came around the bar and went to the pool table, where the balls were already racked. I set down my drink, took off my leather jacket, pulled my shirttail out to hide my pancake holster, then I chose a pool stick. “Come on. Let’s play.”

Kate slid off the bar stool, removed her suede jacket, and pulled her sweater over her holster. She rolled up her sleeves and chose a stick.

I lifted the rack from the balls, and said to Kate, “Since you’re such a ball breaker, you break.” I actually didn’t say that. I said, “After you, madam.”

She chalked up, bent over the table, and shot. Good break, but none of the balls went in.

I ran three balls, then missed an easy shot. I think the scotch was starting to affect my hand-eye coordination. Or maybe I needed another scotch.

Kate ran three balls, and I could see she’d played this game before.

I missed another easy shot, and she said, “Are you drunk, or is this a hustle?”

“I’m just not on my game tonight.”

She ran another four balls, and I conceded the game and racked up. I said, “Let’s play for five bucks a ball.”

“We just did.”

I smiled and asked her, “Where did you learn to play?”

She grinned mischievously. “You don’t want to know.”

The second game was closer because she was getting tipsy.

I was actually having fun, playing pool with my wife, who looked good leaning over the table, and listening to the fire crackle in a nice, cozy room in the woods with a free bar.

A young lady entered the Pub carrying a tray of hors d’oeuvres, which I helped her set on the bar. She said, “Hi, I’m Amy. Welcome to The Point. Can I make you a drink?”

“No,” I replied, “but make yourself one.”

Amy declined my invitation and said, “Here’s a breakfast menu. Just pick what you want, and the time you want it delivered to your room, and call the kitchen.”

I looked at the tray of sissy hors d’oeuvres and asked Amy, “Where are my pigs-in-the-blanket?”

She seemed embarrassed as she replied, “The chef-he’s, like, French-says he’s never heard of that.” She added, “I don’t think we have any hot dogs.”

“Amy, this is America. Tell Pierre-”

Kate interrupted. “Amy, ask the chef to use breakfast sausage.” She explained helpfully, “Saucisses en croste. With mustard. Okay?”

Amy repeated the French in an upstate accent, promised to return, and left.

I said to Kate, “This country is going to hell.”

“John, give it a rest. Try some of these.” She handed me a smoked salmon, which I refused.

“I expected real food here. I mean, we’re in the woods. You know, like buffalo steaks, or hunter’s stew…” I recalled my phone message to Harry and poured myself another scotch.

“I know this has been a very tough day for you, John. So, vent, drink, do whatever makes you feel better.”

I didn’t reply, but I nodded.

We took our drinks back into the game room. I sat at the card table and Kate sat across from me. I opened a fresh deck of cards and asked her, “Do you play poker?”

“I have played. But not well.”

I smiled. “Red chips are a buck. Blue are five bucks. You’re the bank.”

I shuffled as she gave each of us two hundred dollars’ worth of chips.

I put the deck in front of her. “Cut.” She did so, and I dealt five-card draw.

We played a few hands, and I was doing better at cards than I’d done at pool. I may have lost my hand-eye coordination, but I could play poker in my sleep.

Kate glanced at her cell phone and said, “I have one bar-”

“That”-I cocked my thumb toward the mahogany bar-“is the only bar I’m interested in tonight.”

“I think we need to call Tom. Really.”

“Whoever loses this hand calls him.”

She lost the hand, and twenty-two bucks, but won the right to call Tom Walsh.

She dialed his cell phone, he answered, and she said, “Returning your call.” She put it on speaker, then set the cell phone on the table as she gathered up the cards.

I heard him ask, “Where are you?”

Kate said, “At The Point. Where are you?”

He replied, “At the office,” which I thought was interesting and unusual at this hour. “Can you talk?”

She giggled. “Not very well. I’ve had four Stolis.”

She fan-shuffled the deck near the phone, and Walsh said, “I’m getting static.”

“I’m shuffling.”

He seemed impatient with her. “Where’s John?”

“He’s here.”

I said, “Ante up.”

“What-?”

She threw a dollar chip in and said to me, “Cut.”

Walsh asked, “What are you doing?”

Kate replied, “Playing poker.”

“Are you playing alone?”

She dealt five-card draw and replied, “No, that’s solitaire.”

“I mean,” he said with affected patience, “is anyone there aside from John?”

“No. Are you opening?”

I threw a blue chip in the pot. “Open for five.”

She threw two blues in. “Raise you five.”

Walsh asked, “Do you have it on speaker?”

“Yes. How many cards do you want?”

“Two.”

She hit me with two cards and said, “You better have something better than three of a kind, mister. Dealer stands pat.”

“You’re bluffing.”

Walsh said, “Excuse me-would you mind holding up your game for a minute of business?”

Kate put her hand facedown on the table and whispered to me, “To you.”

“You raised my open. It’s to you.”

“Are you sure?”

Walsh said, “It’s to you, Kate. But before you bet, perhaps John can tell me how it went with Major Schaeffer.”

I put my hand facedown, sipped my scotch, and said, “Since you know we’re at The Point, I assume you’ve spoken to him-so what did he tell you?”

“He said Kate was not present at the meeting.”

“Correct. I did a cop-to-cop with him.”

“That’s what I was afraid of. And?”

“What did he tell you?” I asked.

“He told me that you told him about our bet. I guess you’re in a betting mood today.”

That was about as witty as Tom Walsh got, and I wanted to encourage him in that direction, so I laughed.

He asked, “Have you been drinking?”

“No, sir. We’re still drinking.”

“I see… well-”

“Weren’t you supposed to call Schaeffer before we got there to tell him that Kate and I are the designated investigators?”

“Apparently, even drunk, you don’t forget an oversight on my part.”

“Tom, even if I was dead, I wouldn’t forget you screwing me around.”

Mr. Walsh advised me, “You need to learn to manage your anger.”

“Why? It’s the only thing that motivates me to come to work.”

Walsh ignored that. “Was Schaeffer helpful? Did you learn anything?”

“Tom, whatever Schaeffer told me, he’ll tell you. He loves the FBI.”

He suggested, “I think we need to continue this discussion when you’re less fatigued.”

“I’m fine.”

“Okay,” he said. “Just FYI, Harry’s body is being flown by helicopter back to New York for autopsy.” He added, “I understand there were signs of physical abuse on the body.”

I didn’t reply.

Walsh continued, “This is obviously not a hunting accident, and the Bureau is treating it as a homicide.”

“What was your first clue?” I added, “Fax me the full autopsy report, care of Schaeffer.”

He ignored that. “A team of agents have arrived from New York and Washington, and they’d like to speak to both of you tomorrow.”

“As long as they’re not here to arrest us, we’ll talk to them.”

“Don’t be paranoid. They just want a full briefing from you both.”

“Right. Meanwhile, you need to get a Federal judge to issue a search warrant for the Custer Hill Club property and lodge ASAP.”