“Why not?”

“It’s a long story. There are some papers.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m in the city. I’ll meet you in the lobby of the Four Seasons Hotel on M Street. We can talk there.”

Not a bad plan. There would be plenty of foot traffic in the lobby, just in case someone wanted to pull out a gun and start shooting lawyers. “When?” Clay asked.

“Real soon. I’ll be there in five minutes. How long will it take you?”

Clay was not going to mention the fact that he lived six blocks away, though his address was no secret. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“Good. I’m wearing jeans and a black Steelers cap.”

“I’ll find you,” Clay said, then hung up. He finished dressing and hustled out of his town house. Walking rapidly along Dumbarton, he tried to imagine what information he could need or even want on the Hanna company. He’d just spent eighteen hours in Reedsburg, and was trying, quite unsuccessfully, to forget about the place. He turned south on Thirty-first Street, mumbling to himself, lost in a world of conspiracies and payoffs and spy scenarios. A lady passed with a small dog in search of a suitable spot on the sidewalk to relieve itself.

A young man in a black biker’s jacket with a cigarette hanging from his mouth approached, though Clay barely saw him. As the two passed, in front of a poorly lit town house and under the limbs of an old red maple, the man suddenly, with perfect timing and precision, unloaded a short right cross that caught Clay directly on the chin.

Clay never saw it. He remembered a loud pop in his face, and his head crashing into a wrought-iron fence. There was a stick of some sort, and another man, two of them up there throwing punches and flailing away. Clay rolled to his side and managed to get a knee under himself, then the stick landed like a gunshot on the back of his skull.

He heard a woman’s voice in the distance, then he passed out.

The lady had been walking her dog when she heard a commotion behind her. There was a fight of some sort, two against one, with the man on the ground getting the worse of it. She ran closer and was horrified to see two men in black jackets hammering away with large black sticks. She screamed, they ran. She whipped out her cell phone and dialed 911.

The two men ran down the block and disappeared around the corner of a church on N Street. She tried to assist the young man on the ground, who was unconscious and bleeding badly.

Clay was taken to George Washington University Hospital where a trauma team stabilized him. The initial exam revealed two large head wounds caused by something blunt, a cut on his right cheekbone, a cut in his left ear, and numerous contusions. His right fibula was cracked neatly in two. His left kneecap was in pieces and the left ankle was broken. His head was shaved and eighty-one stitches were required to close the two large cuts. His skull was badly bruised but not fractured. Six stitches in his cheekbone, eleven in his ear, and they rolled him into surgery to put his legs back together.

Jonah began calling after waiting impatiently for thirty minutes. He left the restaurant after an hour and headed on foot to Clay’s town house. He knocked on the door, rang the bell, cursed just under his breath, and was ready to throw rocks at the windows when he saw Clay’s car parked between two others down the street. He thought it was Clay’s car, anyway.

He walked slowly toward it. Something was wrong there, he just wasn’t sure what. It was a black Porsche Carrera all right, but it was covered with a white dust. He called the police.

A torn and empty Hanna Portland Cement bag was found under the Porsche. Someone had evidently covered the car with cement, then thrown water at it. In spots, especially on the roof and the hood, large patches of the cement had dried and stuck to the car. As the police inspected it, Jonah told them that its owner was unaccounted for. After a long computer search, Clay’s named popped up, and Jonah took off for the hospital. He called Paulette, and she was there before he arrived. Clay was in surgery, but it was only broken bones and probably a concussion. His injuries did not appear life-threatening.

The lady with the dog told police the assailants were both white males. Three college boys entering a bar on Wisconsin Avenue reported seeing two white males in black jackets hurry around the corner from N Street. They hopped into a metallic green van, where a driver was waiting for them. It was too dark to see the license plates.

The call Clay had received at 8:39 P.M. was traced to a pay phone on M Street, about five minutes from his town house.

The trail grew cold quickly. It was, after all, only a beating. And a Saturday night beating at that. The same night would see two rapes in the city, two drive-by shootings that injured five, and two murders, both of which appeared to be completely at random.

Since Clay had no family in the city, Jonah and Paulette assumed the roles of spokesmen and decision makers. At 1:30 A.M., a doctor reported to them that the surgery had gone smoothly, all the bones were set and ready to heal, some pins and screws had been installed, things couldn’t be better. They would closely monitor brain activity. They were sure there was a concussion but didn’t know how serious it was. “He looks awful,” she warned them.

Two hours went by, as Clay was slowly moved upstairs. Jonah had insisted on a private room. They finally saw him just after 4 A.M. A mummy would have had less wrapping.

Both legs were in thick, full-length casts suspended a few inches off the bed by a complex series of cables and pulleys. A sheet hid his chest and arms. Heavy gauze covered his skull and half his face. His eyes were swollen and shut; mercifully he was still unconscious. His chin was swollen, his lips puffy and blue. Blood had dried on his neck.

They stood in muted silence, taking in the full extent of his wounds, listening to the monitors click and beep, watching his chest move up and down, very slowly. Then Jonah started laughing. “Look at that son of a bitch,” he said.

“Hush, Jonah,” Paulette hissed, ready to slap him.

“There lies the King of Torts,” Jonah said, shaking with suppressed laughter.

Then, she too saw the humor. She managed to laugh without opening her mouth, and for a long moment they both stood at the foot of Clay’s bed, working hard to contain their amusement.

When the humor passed, she said, “You should be ashamed.”

“I am. I’m sorry.”

An orderly rolled in a bed. Paulette would take the first night, Jonah would get the second.

Fortunately, the assault was too late to make the Sunday Post. Miss Glick called each member of the firm and asked them not to visit the hospital and not to send flowers. They might be needed later in the week, but for now just say prayers.

Clay finally came back from the dead around noon Sunday. Paulette was tossing on the foldaway when he said, “Who’s there?”

She jumped up and ran to his side. “It’s me, Clay.”

Through his swollen and blurry eyes he could see a black face. It certainly wasn’t Ridley. He reached out with a hand and said, “Who?”

“Paulette, Clay. Can’t you see?”

“No. Paulette? What are you doing here?” His words were thick, slow, and painful.

“Just taking care of you, boss.”

“Where am I?”

“George Washington University Hospital.”

“Why, what happened?”

“It’s what they call an old-fashioned ass-kicking.”

“What?”

“You got jumped. Two guys with sticks. You need some pain pills?”

“Please.”

She raced from the room and found a nurse. A doctor showed up a few minutes later and, in excruciating detail, explained to Clay just how badly he’d been beaten. Another pill, and Clay drifted away again. Most of Sunday was spent in a pleasant fog, with Paulette and Jonah baby-sitting as they read the newspapers and watched pro football.