What he might have said to Billy Raskov about me I didn't want to know, though in a sense it hardly mattered.

He was somehow both of us and beyond us. He did not need to be anointed, ordained. He had powers of cajolement, a gentle, quasi-Christ-y authority. Maybe he just knew how we'd all turn out. He would guard our spasms of shame, of ego, from the others, wait with patience, forgiveness, for us to slip free of our charades, embrace our destinies, as bond lawyers, dental surgeons, new media consultants, housewives, househusbands, or unemployed development officers. Then he would stand there in his beautiful truth, the truth of money.

Five

Purdy met me at a steakhouse in Tribeca, a modern joint with futuristic sconces that looked like laser mounts. Here, the waiters sliced your meat because you were the feeb end of the species. The room seemed cozy and cavernous at once, the kind of place I would later describe to Maura as tastefully lit. A few bourbons, and so was I.

Though not particularly hungry, I succumbed to a certain unseemly ferocity with regard to my porterhouse. Sometimes I lost it around food I could not afford. I gnawed bone, tongued gristle, and while my old friend repaired to the men's, I reached for a bite of his almost untouched cut, popped a few of his rosemary-speckled potatoes into my mouth. I was fairly certain that upon his return he would not notice his plate's depletions, unless he'd made an earlier, silent spud count. This was possible. Men of his station were bred for such pettiness.

Though I was also pretty sure I had to work tomorrow, or at least report to the office, I ordered a second Calvados. Purdy, who never had to work again, sipped his wine. He pushed his glass an inch or two across the table, the universal sign that the convivial portion of the evening was over, although maybe it wasn't universal. I hadn't traveled much beyond Europe, and Canada didn't count.

"It's good to see you, Milo, really. You look great."

"No, you actually look great, Purdy."

God knew what diets, unguents, procedures, protocols had preserved him, his taut golden skin and plush honeyed hair, the roped muscle beneath his thin, collared shirt. Then again, maybe he'd won both of life's lotteries, required no protocols.

"I'm so glad to hear about Maura and Bernie," said Purdy.

"Hear what?"

"Everything you've been telling me for the past hour. Damn, a kid. We've been trying, you know. Melinda and I. We've got half the doctors in New York on the case."

"I'm sure it'll happen for you guys."

"I'm sure it will, too. Probably have to fertilize Melinda's eggs on the surface of Mars, but it will happen. Our happiness depends upon it."

"You'll be happy either way, Purdy."

"Happiness is tricky. It sounds like you've figured it out."

"Sure."

"Sure, he says," said Purdy.

"Sure, I say," I said.

"Don't be bitter, Milo. It doesn't become you."

"I'm not bitter," I said.

Purdy leaned back, as though to better assemble an exceptionally nuanced expression on his face, maybe some amalgam of pity and revelation.

"You're pissed because I'm so rich," he said. "You've always been pissed. You think I didn't earn it."

"You didn't."

"Of course I did. The trust fund made me comfortable. My own hard work made me rich. I knew when to cash out during all that interweb crap. Not many did."

Interweb, webnet, interpipe-the joke had begun to grate. If they flubbed it and winked, what? I was tired of the semantic evasions, mine included. I was tired of many things. I had been keeping a list, got tired of the list.

"I guess not," I said.

"Don't be a hater," said Purdy.

"I'm not just any old hater," I said. "I'm a hater's hater."

It was as though Purdy hadn't heard me, or perhaps it was precisely that he had.

"You're doing better than ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the people in this world," he said. "Capitalism might have shit the bed, but it's been very good to you, buddy, whether you know it or not."

"Hooray!" I said. "Let's drink to me. I'm not rich, and I'm not famous, but I am fat and white, or white-ish, and my debt load is at least testament to the fact that over the years various institutions have considered me a worthy mark."

"Good for you," said Purdy.

He sounded sincere and it scared me.

"You want another drink?" I said. "Maybe I'll get another drink."

"I'm fine," said Purdy.

"I'm not fine. I'm not fine at all. Let's have some drinks! Some fucking mojitos or something. Don't they have that fifty-dollar mojito here? With that rum from the island where they make one case a year, and the hydroponic mint they fly in weekly? I want one! It's all on the Whig, okay?"

"The who?" said Purdy.

"The Whig. Our founding daddy."

"Maybe you should slow down, Milo."

"Why the hell would I want to do that?"

"Because I don't think they fly that mint in anymore, for one thing. Look, Milo, I know we're old friends. I've held you over the toilet a few times, back in the day, but come on. The age of the expense account is over. I read it in the paper two years ago. And two months ago. And today."

"Sure," I said. "Yes. Of course."

"Excellent," said Purdy. "Now, do you have any questions for me?"

"Yes, I do. Why give to us? Why not give to the truly needy? The bombed-out, the starved-down, the families running from butchers on horseback. Or folks whose fate depends on whether they can score a fucking shovel and a bag of seeds."

"You mean genocides? Microfinancing?"

"Yeah, or even all the devastated people here."

"We give to those causes. Less and less, of course. We've all gotten murdered."

"How about giving to just a random assortment of middle-class families? Or not so random? How about mine?"

"Funny," said Purdy, in the way of a man who did not find it funny. "Any more questions? Wait, hold on."

Purdy took out a weird phone, the device we'd all be using next year, punched some keys.

"Forgive me," he said. "Forgot about something I needed to send. Where were we? Oh, yeah. Questions?"

"Just the canned ones. Like maybe you can tell me how you first got interested in the Mediocre University at New York's arts program."

"The Mediocre what?"

"Sorry. What I mean is-"

"Melinda had a wonderful experience at your university. Especially in the film and theater classes she took. It was the best investment I ever made, sending her there after we met. Sure, it was the only place she had any chance in hell of getting into, but it enriched her. That sounds stupid, but it's true. It helped her become the woman she wanted to be, and needed to be, to be with me. Actually, Melinda handles a lot of our giving these days. Museums, orchestras, film societies. My area of interest is more narrow. I enjoy finding younger female artists and helping them at that crucial stage when their asses are firm and unblemished."

"You're joking," I said, clenched my jaw to squeeze the booze from my skull.

"Of course I'm joking. But of course I'm not really joking. Ultimately it's nothing like a joke. You know, now that you're trying to act sober, I can see how drunk you are. How many of my potatoes did you eat, freak? And what about my steak? Did you think I wouldn't notice? Do you always grope other people's meat? It's cute when you're twenty, Milo, but come on. Get a grip."

"I will."

"Will what?"

"Grip it."

"Grip it now, kid."

"Okay. I'll try. Really."

"Good. Now. Let's talk our talk. Your beloved institution seems like it wants to step up to the next level. Be a culture player. Crank out all those smug nullities who can make the stylish, insipid, top-notch crap. Stuff we can jerk off to but that will also make us sorry, but not too sorry. Sexy sorry. Am I right?"