“Your father tells me you’re the one with the money.” Maltbee’s eyes were hidden behind thick sunshades.

“I guess he’s right,” Clay said.

“She’s a four-million-dollar boat, practically new, one of our best. Built for one of those dot-commers who lost his money faster than he made it. A sorry lot of them, if you ask me. Anyway, we’re stuck with it. Market’s slow. We’ll move it for three million, and at that you should be charged with thievery. If you incorporate the boat under Bahamian law as a charter company, there are all sorts of tax tricks. I can’t explain them, but we have a lawyer in Nassau who does the paperwork. If you can catch him sober.”

“I’m a lawyer.”

“Then why are you sober?”

Ha, ha, ha; they both managed an awkward laugh.

“What about depreciation?” Clay asked.

“Heavy, quite heavy, but again, that’s for you lawyers. I’m just a salesman. I think your old man likes it though. Boats like these are quite the rage from here to Bermuda to South America. It’ll make money.”

So says the salesman, and a bad one at that. If Clay bought a boat for his father, his sole dream was that it would break even and not become a black hole. Maltbee disappeared as quickly as he had materialized.

Three days later, Clay signed a contract to pay $2.9 million for the boat. The lawyer, who was in fact not completely sober during either of the two meetings Clay had with him, chartered the Bahamian company in Jarrett’s name only. The boat was a gift from son to father, an asset to be hidden away in the islands, much like Jarrett himself.

Over dinner their last night in Nassau, in the back of a seedy saloon packed with drug dealers and tax cheaters and alimony dodgers, virtually all of them American, Clay cracked crab legs and finally asked a question he’d been considering for weeks now. “Any chance you could ever return to the States?”

“For what?”

“To practice law. To be my partner. To litigate and kick ass again.”

The question made Jarrett smile. The thought of father and son working together. The very idea that Clay wanted him to return; back to an office, back to something respectable. The boy lived under a dark cloud that the old man had left behind. However, given the boy’s recent success the cloud was certainly shrinking.

“I doubt it, Clay. I surrendered my license and promised to stay away.”

“Would you want to come back?”

“Maybe to clear my name, but never to practice law again. There’s too much baggage, too many old enemies still lurking around. I’m fifty-five years old, and that’s a bit late to start over.”

“Where will you be in ten years?”

“I don’t think like that. I don’t believe in calendars and schedules and lists of things to do. Setting goals is such a stupid American habit. Not for me. I try to get through today, maybe give a thought or two to tomorrow, and that’s it. Plotting the future is damned ridiculous.”

“Sorry I asked.”

“Live for the moment, Clay. Tomorrow will take care of itself. You’ve got your hands full right now, seems to me.”

“The money should keep me occupied.”

“Don’t blow it, son. I know that looks impossible, but you’ll be surprised. New friends are about to pop up all over the place. Women will drop from the sky.”

“When?”

“Just wait. I read a book once—Fool’s Gold, or something like that. One story after another about great fortunes that had been lost by the idiots who had them. Fascinating reading. Get a copy.”

“I think I’ll pass.”

Jarrett threw a shrimp in his mouth and changed the subject, “Are you going to help your mother?”

“Probably not. She doesn’t need help. Her husband is wealthy, remember?”

“When have you talked to her?”

“It’s been eleven years, Dad. Why do you care?”

“Just curious. It’s odd. You marry a woman, live with her for twenty-five years, and you sometimes wonder what she’s doing.”

“Let’s talk about something else.”

“Rebecca?”

“Next.”

“Let’s go hit the crap tables. I’m up four thousand bucks.”

When Mr. Ted Worley of Upper Marlboro, Maryland, received a thick envelope from the Law Offices of J. Clay Carter II, he immediately opened it. He’d seen various news reports about the Dyloft settlement. He’d watched the Dyloft Web site religiously, waiting for some sign that it was time to collect his money from Ackerman Labs.

The letter began, “Dear Mr. Worley: Congratulations.

Your class-action claim against Ackerman Labs has been settled in the U.S. District Court for the Southern District of Mississippi. As a Group One Plaintiff, your portion of the settlement is $62,000. Pursuant to the Contract for Legal Services entered into by you and this law firm, a 28 percent contingency for attorneys’ fees is now applicable. In addition, a deduction of $1,400 for litigation expenses has been approved by the court. Your net settlement is $43,240. Please sign the enclosed agreement and acknowledgment forms and return them immediately in the enclosed envelope. Sincerely, Oscar Mulrooney, Attorney-at-Law.”

“A different lawyer every damned time,” Mr. Worley said as he kept flipping pages. There was a copy of the court order approving the settlement, and a notice to all class-action plaintiffs, and some other papers that he suddenly had no desire to read.

$43,240! That was the grand sum he would receive from a sleazy pharmaceutical giant that deliberately put into the marketplace a drug that caused four tumors to grow in his bladder? $43,240 for months of fear and stress and uncertainty about living or dying? $43,240 for the ordeal of a microscopic knife and scope in a tube slid up his penis and into his bladder where the four growths were removed one by one and retrieved back through his penis? $43,240 for three days of lumps and blood passed through his urine?

He flinched at the memory.

He called six times and left six hot messages and waited six hours until Mr. Mulrooney called him back. “Who the hell are you?” Mr. Worley began pleasantly.

Oscar Mulrooney, in the past ten days, had become an expert at handling such calls. He explained that he was the attorney in charge of Mr. Worley’s case.

“This settlement is a joke!” Mr. Worley said. “Fortythree thousand dollars is criminal.”

“Your settlement is sixty-two thousand, Mr. Worley,” Oscar said.

“I’m getting forty-three, son.”

“No, you’re getting sixty-two. You agreed to give one-third to your attorney, without whom you would be getting nothing. It’s been reduced to twenty-eight percent by the settlement. Most lawyers charge forty-five or fifty percent.”

“Well, aren’t I a lucky bastard. I’m not accepting it.”

To which Oscar offered a brief and well-rehearsed narrative about how Ackerman Labs could only pay so much without going bankrupt, an event that would leave Mr. Worley with even less, if anything at all.

“That’s nice,” Mr. Worley said. “But I’m not accepting the settlement.”

“You have no choice.”

“The hell I don’t.”

“Look at the Contract for Legal Services, Mr. Worley. It’s page eleven in the packet you have there. Paragraph eight is called the Preauthorization. Read the language, sir, and you’ll see that you authorized this firm to settle for anything above fifty thousand dollars.”

“I remember that, but it was described to me as a starting point. I was expecting much more.”

“Your settlement has already been approved by the court, sir. That’s the way class actions work. If you don’t sign the acceptance form, then your portion will stay in the pot and eventually go to someone else.”

“You’re a bunch of crooks, you know that? I don’t know who’s worse—the company that made the drug or my own lawyers who’re screwing me out of a fair settlement.”

“Sorry you feel that way.”

“You’re not sorry about a damned thing. Paper says you’re getting a hundred million bucks. Thieves!”