The barman bowed at my approach, scooped some ice into a glass, reached for the bottle on the stool.

"No," I said.

"No ice?"

"Yes, ice. Just pour that into it."

I pointed to the swill, saw a new sad knowing in the barman's eyes.

I took my drink back to the table. Charles, abandoned, leaned over his plate with a butter knife, sliced the wings off a tiny magenta duck.

"They went to the bathroom," he said. "I'll refrain from some cliched comment about how they always go in pairs."

"Thanks for refraining," I said.

"How you doing there, buddy?" said Charles. "Looks like you're partaking of a wee dram or two."

"You have any coke?" I said.

"Coca-cola?"

"No, the other kind."

"You must be kidding."

"Coke can be pretty transcendental. And interconnective. First couple bumps, anyway."

"I don't have any coke. I never had any coke. You know that."

"I don't know. I remember you were always trying to get laid and nobody would ever go to bed with you. And this was a time and place when being able to explain Horkheimer would get you action easy."

"I never really saw it that way."

"But you figured it out, because Emerson, Thoreau, that's where the real tail is, right? The dependable stuff. I'm just guessing."

"When did you get like this, Milo?"

"Seriously? About twenty years ago. And then about two months ago. And then about ten minutes ago. Why should I want to deck you? I'm wracking my brain. I can't think of why I should deck you. I always pretty much liked you. I know you thought I was a lightweight, but I didn't mind. I thought you were a bore, and that my paintings would outlive your tedious summaries of other people's books. But it looks like I was wrong."

"Man, you take self-pity to new and astonishing heights, don't you?"

"Probably," I said.

"Constance thought so."

"Constance said that? When?"

"A long time ago."

"Oh."

"Look, this is weird. I didn't mean to get into it with you."

"You still haven't told me why I should deck you. Is this about my knife?"

"Your knife?"

"My Spanish dueling knife."

"No. It's not anything, I guess."

"Do you see Constance?" I said.

"Sometimes. She's my ex-wife."

"Really?"

"Yeah, I thought you knew. I thought… we thought you were angry, still angry ten years later when we sent out the invitations. We invited you to the wedding. You never responded."

"I don't think I got it."

"Bullshit."

"I don't know what to say, Charles. I'm sorry. I've been an asshole for years."

"Constance thought you were heartbroken."

"She did?"

"We always thought of maybe reaching out to you, but she was afraid you were too angry."

"I would have been glad that she was happy."

"It's good to hear that. Constance would probably love to hear that."

"What happened to you guys, anyway?"

"What happens to people, Milo?"

Now Ginny and Lisa rejoined us, just as Purdy clambered up on his chair at a nearby table, clinked his glass with a spoon.

"Hi, everybody," he said. "Just wanted to thank you all for coming. I see so many people from different parts of my life. It makes me so happy. There really wasn't an occasion for this party. I was trying hard to come up with one. I looked into historical birthdays. There were some contenders, a medieval tsar, as I remember, and a noted National League southpaw from the seventies, but nobody seemed worth the big bash. Maybe, I thought, I'll just call it Melinda's Ovaries Day, a celebration of the little old egg that could. God knows how many couldn't."

"The ancient mariners in your ball sack were the problem!" called the guy with the pink polo shirt.

"Thanks, Kyle," said Purdy. "That's Kyle Northridge, a now former principal in Groupuscule Media."

"You can't afford to fire me!"

"Fire him from what? The whole thing's in the shitter!" called a man next to Kyle.

"True," said Purdy.

"Say it ain't so!"

"But really, folks, it's not about business. It's not. It's about people. And it is a bona fide delight to see you people types enjoying yourselves in my home. Our home, I mean. Soon to be the home of little Arnold Horshack Stuart."

"Don't do it!" somebody called.

"No? What do you guys think of Space Lab Stuart?"

"Sea Monkeys," somebody said.

"Too self-conscious!" somebody called.

"How about Red Dye Number Two Stuart?" called another.

"You're not getting it!"

"Carter Malaise Stuart!"

"Marzipan!"

"I hate marzipan!" said Purdy.

"Hey," called a new voice, high, strained. "How about Fallujah?"

There was a clatter near the kitchen door.

One of the caterers stood with a tray of cups and saucers. Other than his short white jacket he didn't look much like the others. He wore his hair up in a beige bandana. He'd rolled his sweatpants up past his knee. The sunlight spearing through the steep windows made his metal shins twinkle.

"Come again?" said Kyle Northridge.

Don's tray hit the floor with a clap. Cup shards skidded. Don strode toward us, his gait a near glide, smoother than I'd ever seen it. Purdy slid down into a crouch on the chair.

"I said, 'How about Fallujah?' " said Don. "Or Baghdad. Or fucking Anbar. Anbar Awakening Stuart. Or maybe just Surge. What do you think? Surge Stuart?"

"Hey," said Purdy. "Those are all good."

"Really."

"Hey, yeah," said Purdy, gentle, beseeching. "Yes. How are you?"

"How am I?"

"Yes."

"How am I?"

"It's good to see you."

"Oh," said Don. "Is it? Is it good to see me?"

"Of course," said Purdy. "You are like family. I mean, like, family."

"Thanks, Dad."

Purdy looked down on Don from his perch. They both appeared to quiver. It occurred to me that Purdy had never seen his son before. Don had only caught sight of his father in photographs, through motel windows.

"You've earned it, son."

Don's eyes softened, beamed, something boyish and quasi-sainted glowing in them.

Now came the slap of hard shoes, dark fabrics flashing, a glint of jewels. Giant men swooped in from the edge of the room. You could tell they were the bodyguards because they dressed better than the guests. The rangier one guided Purdy down from the chair. The other, his head the size and hue of a glazed ham, cupped Don's elbow with bling-sheathed fingers.

"What the hell?" said Don.

"You really have earned it, son," said Purdy, nodded at Don's legs. "For what happened to you. For what's happened to so many of you. We are all in your debt. And we should all take responsibility."

"Is that a fucking joke?" said Don.

He shook off the bodyguard, but the huge man snatched Don's hand, bent it behind his back.

"I was over there, too," said the bodyguard. "Don't be a fool."

"Blue falcon," said Don.

"I ain't no buddy fucker," said the bodyguard. "This is my job."

"You could have waited to move her until I got back," said Don, looked hard at Purdy.

"What difference would that have made?"

"You rotten shit. I should just-"

"Don."

"Don't even say my fucking name."

"Don, please…" said Purdy.

"I said don't say it."

Now Michael Florida crossed the oak floor in a pair of alligator boots, leaned forward to whisper in Purdy's ear.

"Right," said Purdy.

"What?" said Don.

Purdy nodded to Melinda, turned stiffly to the tables.

"What's going on?" said Don.

"I'm afraid we're going to have to cut this evening a little short," Purdy said. "I've just this moment received some awful news about a dear friend. Lee Moss has died. I suspect he did so with his loving family at his bedside, as he wanted and deserved. I feel I've lost another father. I think it's better if we grieve quietly tonight."