Purdy pinched his lips, made a short, grave bow, walked off toward the study.

"Where the fuck are you going now!" shouted Don. "Come back, Daddy!"

Michael Florida flicked his chin and the bodyguard let Don go. Don jogged a few steps toward his father, his boat shoes stabbing at the antique oak. His heel caught a scoop in the wood and he slid, twisted, pitched over in an violent braid of metal and meat. Somehow he got to his knees.

"She loved you more than anything!" called Don.

Purdy stopped for moment, seemed about to turn around.

"She did," Don sobbed.

Purdy ducked into the study and shut the door.

"She did," said Don again, softer, as though suddenly aware of the room, his audience, who had already begun to look away and whisper.

I walked over and knelt near Don, rubbed his arm.

"Hey," I said. "It's okay."

"Get the fuck off me," he said.

"Really, Don, it's okay. Let's just get out of here."

"I'll kill you," Don snarled.

I rose, backed away, watched Don sit with his head on his knees, rock. Michael Florida walked over and squatted beside him. He must have said something amusing because Don looked up with an odd half-smile. Michael Florida began to talk, very rapidly, it seemed, and Don cocked his head.

Now Michael Florida stood and hoisted Don up, looped the boy's arm across his neck like they were soldiers in some statue about blood and brotherhood. Together they stumbled out of the room.

I was about to follow them when Melinda stood to speak, worried the thin platinum chain at her throat.

"Please," she said. "Let me apologize for all of this."

"Don't even, Melinda," Ginny said. "It's okay."

"Really," said Charles Goldfarb.

"It's nobody's fault," said Kyle Northridge.

"No, I think I should explain. I doubt any of you knew, because he doesn't like to brag, but that boy, well, Purdy's been doing some work with an organization that helps young vets. A lot of them have severe problems. Don has been one of Purdy's projects. I'm afraid it's not going that well right now. But don't let that dissuade you from getting involved in this very important cause. With everything that's happened in this country, we are forgetting about these poor kids. Not even to mention what we've done to the men, women, and children of those other countries. It may not be fashionable anymore, but that's precisely why now is the time to revisit these issues and really give your support. I hope you'll excuse us this hasty end to the evening. We all love you very much and can't wait to see you in a more joyful context real soon."

Melinda palmed her belly, the context. Other women closed around for soothing squeezes.

"These fucking wars," said Charles Goldfarb, tilted back in his chair. "Only the historians will have a true sense of what they did to us."

"Fantastic," I said. "Blistering."

"Who's Lee Moss again?" said Lisa.

"He's the conveniently dead guy," I said.

I drained my Scotch, scooped a handful of chocolate stag beetles into my pocket. People began to gather their coats and bags.

"Milo, hold up, I'll walk out with you."

"No thanks, Charles. Think I want to be alone."

"Suit yourself."

"Say hello to Constance for me," I said.

"I will. I mean, I hardly see her but… yes, I will."

"Tell her I'm happy for her," I said. "And sad for her. And also happy-sad. Tell her to get a better haircut. She looks like the middle-aged head of a girl's prep school."

"That's what she is."

"It's the end of us, Charles."

"I'm doing fine, Milo."

"Didn't Adorno say that to write think pieces for mainstream magazines after Auschwitz is barbaric?"

"No, he didn't."

"What about Schopenhauer?"

"What about him?"

"Give me the capsule."

"The what?"

"The takeaway."

"Pardon?"

"You're not the enemy, Charles, but fuck you."

"You're incredibly drunk."

"To tell you the truth, I'm not even clear on whether I'm standing up or sitting down right now."

"Then maybe you should sit down."

"No," I said. "I think that would be a bad idea."

Twenty-seven

That sleeper fiend, my hangover, had given notice at the smelting plant, deposited his family under the floorboards of his garden shed. He stood over me now in Claudia and Francine's guest room, his eyes fish-dead behind the barrel of his skull-mulching gun.

"Please don't shoot," I moaned.

"It's nothing personal."

"But why?"

"Why what?"

"Why are you here?"

"You sent for me."

"I did?"

"You're an alcoholic."

"No," I said, "I'm just a heavy drinker."

"Maybe," said my assassin, "but who's got the gun?"

I stood dazed in the shower for forty minutes, half dozing, half soaped, loosed wet, scorching farts, muttered things like "Christ," and "swill," and "malaise." When I'd wasted enough water to hydrate an Eritrean village for a year, I remembered the climax of the previous evening, the appearance of Don, his truncated challenge, those stylish goons under stern Floridian command, Michael Florida himself hauling Don out, and to where, exactly? Worry got me onto the rose-embroidered bath mat and into my clothes. I called Don's cell and left a message. I called Purdy's cell and left a message. I texted Purdy to find out if he had gotten my message. Then I staggered over to Claudia's wicker lounger and collapsed.

Later, misery beaten back into temporary cover with a pot of coffee and some Valium from Francine's dresser, I made my way to Jackson Heights, stabbed Don's buzzer, sat on the stoop to wait. A basement door banged open and a young guy in a basketball jersey stepped out.

"Hey," I said.

The man waved.

"Nabeel?"

"Do I know you?"

"No. My friend lives here. Said your name once."

"Oh, yeah? Why did he say my name?"

"Just talking is all. Telling me about the crazy boiler."

"The boiler."

"Yeah," I said. "So, you like basketball?"

"Basketball?"

"Your shirt."

"Shit, man, it's a shirt. Not a statement."

"Sorry, just making conversation."

"Don't do that. And why are you smiling? You stick out. You see anybody smiling around here?"

Nearby an old lady in a calico dress knelt on the sidewalk, slid a dog turd into a Ziploc bag. Though maybe it was some other order of turd, as I saw no dog.

"No," I said. "I don't."

"I rest my case."

It was not clear to me what, for this kid, constituted a case.

"I'm waiting for a buddy of mine," I said. "Seen him?"

"How would I know if I'd seen him?"

"You'd know," I said. "He's got metal legs."

"Sure he's your friend?" said the man.

"What do you mean?"

"The guys here last night, they said they were his friends. Don's been pretty quiet. Suddenly he has a lot of friends."

"Who was here last night?"

"Like I said, some guys."

"Have you seen Don today?"

"No."

"Let me into the building, I need to see him. You can come with me. I need to see that he's okay."

"I can't do that. My uncle would be pissed."

"Please," I said.

"I can't do it."

"How much can you not do it for?" I said.

"I can't do it for between one and fifty-nine dollars."

I slid three twenties from my wallet.

"Here."

We climbed through the hot stink of the stairwell.

"Don," said Nabeel, knocked hard on the door. "Don!"

The way he called the name, the intimacy of tone, made me wonder if they'd talked some, if Don had told him anything about Purdy.

"You ever rap to Don about his life?"

"Rap? What kind of word is that? Are you a cop?"

"No."

"So why are you asking this stuff? It's weird."

"I just want to help Don," I said. "Did he tell you anything?"