“From D.C., about forty minutes. This little bird does six hundred miles an hour.”

“Which airport?”

“Teterboro, it’s in New Jersey. All the private jets go there.”

“So that’s why I haven’t heard of it.”

“Your jet’s on the way, Clay, get ready for it. You could take away all my toys, just leave me a jet. You gotta have one.”

“I’ll just use yours.”

“Start off with a little Lear. You can buy them all day long for a couple of million. You need two pilots, seventy-five grand each. It’s just part of the overhead. Gotta have it. You’ll see.”

For the first time in his life, Clay was getting jet advice.

Julia removed the trays of food and said they would be landing in five minutes. Clay became entranced by the view of the Manhattan skyline to the east. French fell asleep.

They landed and taxied past a row of private terminals, where dozens of handsome jets were either parked or being serviced. “You’ll see more private jets here than in any other place in the world,” French explained as both looked out the windows. “All the big boys in Manhattan park their planes here. It’s a forty-five-minute drive into the city. If you really have the fuzz, you have your own helicopter to take you from here to the city. That’s only ten minutes.”

“Do we have a helicopter?” Clay asked.

“No. But if I lived here, I would have one.”

A limo fetched them on the ramp, just a few feet from where they stepped off the plane. The pilots and Julia stayed behind, tidying up and no doubt making sure the wine was chilled for the next flight.

“The Peninsula,” French said to the driver.

“Yes sir, Mr. French,” he replied. Was this a rented limo or one owned by Patton himself? Surely, the world’s greatest mass tort lawyer wouldn’t use a car service. Clay decided to let it pass. What difference did it make?

“I’m curious about your ads,” French said, as they moved through the congestion of New Jersey. “When did you start running them?”

“Sunday night, in ninety markets, coast to coast.”

“How are you processing them?”

“Nine people working the phones—seven paralegals, two lawyers. We took two thousand calls Monday, three thousand yesterday. Our Dyloft Web site is getting eight thousand hits each day. Assuming the usual hit ratio, that’s about a thousand clients already.”

“And the pool is how big?”

“Fifty to seventy-five thousand, according to my source, who so far has been pretty accurate.”

“I’d like to meet your source.”

“Forget it.”

French cracked his knuckles and tried to accept this rejection. “We have to get these cases, Clay. My ads start tomorrow. What if we divide the country? You take the North and East, give me the South and West. It’ll be easier to target smaller markets, and much easier to handle the cases. There’s a guy in Miami who’ll be on television within days. And there’s one in California who, I promise you, is copying your ads right now. We’re sharks, okay, nothing but vultures. The race is on for the courthouse, Clay. We have one helluva head start, but the stampede is coming.”

“I’m doing the best I can.”

“Give me your budget,” French said, as if he and Clay had been in business for years.

What the hell, Clay thought. Sitting in the back of the limo together, they certainly seemed like partners. “Two million for advertising, another two million for the urinalyses.”

“Here’s what we’ll do,” French said without the slightest gap in the conversation. “Spend all your money on advertising. Get the damned cases, okay! I’ll front the money for the urinalyses, all of it, and we’ll make Ackerman Labs reimburse us when we settle. That’s a normal part of every settlement, to make the company cover all medicals.”

“The tests are three hundred dollars each.”

“You’re getting screwed. I’ll put some technicians together and we’ll do it much cheaper.” Which reminded French of a story, one about the early days of Skinny Ben litigation. He converted four former Greyhound buses into traveling clinics and raced all over the country screening potential clients. Clay listened with fading interest as they crossed the George Washington Bridge. Another story followed.

Clay’s suite at The Peninsula had a view of Fifth Avenue. Once he was safely locked inside, away from Patton French, he grabbed the phone and began searching for Max Pace.

The third cell phone number found Pace at some undisclosed location. The man with no home had been in D.C. less and less in recent weeks. Of course he was off putting out another fire, nixing another round of nasty litigation for another wayward client, though he didn’t admit this. Didn’t have to. Clay knew him well enough by now to know that he was a fireman in demand. There was no shortage of bad products out there.

Clay was surprised at how comforting it was to hear Pace’s voice. He explained that he was in New York, whom he was with, and why he was there. Pace’s first word sealed the deal. “Brilliant,” he said. “Just brilliant.”

“You know him?”

“Everybody in this business knows Patton French,” Pace said. “I’ve never had to deal with him, but he’s a legend.”

Clay gave the terms of the offer from French. Pace quickly caught up and then began thinking ahead. “If you refile in Biloxi, Mississippi, Ackerman’s stock will take another hit,” he said. “They’re under tremendous pressure right now—pressure from their banks and their shareholders. This is brilliant, Clay. Do it!”

“Okay. Done.”

“And watch the New York Times in the morning. Big story about Dyloft. The first medical report is out. It’s devastating.”

“Great.”

He got a beer from the mini-bar—$8.00 but who cared—and for a long time sat in front of the window and watched the frenzy on Fifth Avenue. It was not entirely comforting to be forced to rely on Max Pace for advice, but there was simply no one else to turn to. No one, not even his father, had ever been presented with such a choice: “Let’s move your five thousand cases over here and put them together with my five thousand cases, and we’ll do not two but one class action, and I’ll plunk down a million or so for the medical screenings while you double your advertising plan, and we’ll rake forty percent off the top, then expenses, and make us a fortune. Whatta you say, Clay?”

In the past month he’d made more money than he’d ever dreamed of earning. Now, as things spun out of control, he felt as if he was spending it even faster. Be bold, he kept telling himself, this is a rare opportunity. Be bold, strike fast, take chances, roll the dice, and you could get filthy rich. Another voice kept urging him to slow down, don’t blow the money, bury it and have it forever.

He had moved $1 million to an account off-shore, not to hide but to protect. He would never touch it, not under any circumstances. If he made bad choices and gambled it all away, he’d still have money for the beach.

He would sneak out of town like his father and never come back.

The million dollars in the secret account was his compromise.

He tried calling his office but all lines were busy, a good sign. He got Jonah on his cell phone, sitting at his desk. “It’s crazy as hell,” Jonah said, very fatigued. “Total chaos.”

“Good.”

“Why don’t you get back here and help!”

“Tomorrow.”

At seven thirty-two, Clay turned on the television and found his ad on a cable channel. Dyloft sounded even more ominous in New York.

Dinner was at Montrachet, not for the food, which was very good, but for the wine list, which was thicker than any other in New York. French wanted to taste several red burgundies with his veal. Five bottles were brought to the table, with a different glass for each wine. There was little room for the bread and butter.