Everybody was smiling now, even laughing a little. “Confidence,” John said happily, “the key to life.” He took a drink.

“So you kept the table?”

Daphne laughed.

“They couldn’t get it through the door of their apartment.”

John turned red and looked down. The rest of us cracked up.

“You put it back?”

“Not exactly…”

Daphne shook her head.

“They left it on the squash courts.”

I don’t know why, but that’s when I lost it. I laughed so hard I nearly cried. It was like all the stress of the last two months came rushing out.

I felt the thaw come over our small group. It was almost like we were back at Nigel’s dinner party, before everything went to hell with trials and mysterious clubs that can’t be mentioned for some pretentious reason.

“This is what matters,” I said finally. “Right here. Friendship. At the end of the day, none of the other stuff matters.”

Everybody agreed, but nobody looked totally sure.

John and Nigel stumbled toward their homes. Daphne and I hung back. I didn’t know what to say next. Somehow “Your place or mine?” seemed wrong.

“I guess I might see you tomorrow night,” I said. Tomorrow was the eleventh, the night of the second event, according to the cryptic invitation on my bed.

Daphne smiled. “Maybe. Who knows what they have in store for us?” She rubbed my arm. “You were great today. I knew I was right to choose you.”

“You were great too.”

I felt a thrill in my stomach.

She made a big production of yawning and stretching. “Wow, I can’t keep my eyes open.” She leaned in and gave me a brief hug. Then she said good night and walked off, leaving me as confused and deflated as a star witness on the stand, freshly shredded and dismissed.

The next morning I checked my bank account. About a thousand dollars left to get me to the end of the semester and my next loan check. I withdrew eight hundred and bought a new suit.

14

November 11 marked day two of the Indian summer that arrived with the trial. I could almost forget the bitterness of October; the days were now bright and cheerful, warm in the sun, crisp in the shade. I got a haircut and asked for it short. I usually let my hair dry wavy. Today I parted it on the left and combed it straight. I put on my new suit. I looked in the mirror and hardly recognized myself.

Tonight’s invitation had even less information than the first. Just a date and time. No address. No instructions.

The only option, I decided, was to return to 2312 Morland Street. I would get there early, in case I was wrong and had to improvise.

On the way, I wondered who I would see tonight. Would I encounter the elegant Mr. Bones again? Would he show me new items in his crazy-man collection?

Would I see the old man with the red toupee, the retired lawyer who asked all about my grandfather? The one who wondered if I wanted it bad enough? He wouldn’t have to ask that tonight.

The gingerbread house on Morland Street looked the same. I rang the doorbell. A young woman dressed like a soccer mom pulled aside the curtain and looked at me through the window. Two kids chased a ball behind her.

“Yes?”

“Hi. I’m Jeremy Davis. I’m looking for”-I didn’t even know his name-“the gentleman who lives here.”

“I’m sorry, who are you looking for?”

“The man who lives here? He’s about my height? Gray hair?”

“There’s no one like that here.” She picked up one of the kids who was pulling at her pants. She looked at my suit, sized me up. She closed the curtain and opened the door.

“We moved in two weeks ago. Maybe you’re looking for the people who lived here before?”

“You moved in two weeks ago?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

She raised her eyebrows.

“Pretty sure.”

I tried to think.

“Did they leave a forwarding address?”

“No. I never met them. I’m sorry I can’t be more help.”

She started to close the door.

“Are you sure I’m not supposed to be here?”

She looked me over.

“Sorry, sweetie. I don’t know what to tell you.”

“Thanks anyway.”

“All right. Drive safe.”

It was an odd thing for her to say, considering I walked here. But when I turned around to leave, I saw a car idling across the street. It was a nice car-I’m no good with names, but I was pretty sure it was a Bentley. The windows were tinted. A driver stood by the rear passenger door. He was straight out of another era-long coat, black chauffeur’s cap, leather gloves.

We made eye contact, and he looked away almost instantly, lowering his head and moving to open the door. He stood beside it, holding it open and keeping his eyes down.

I looked around. There was no one else nearby. The street was silent, except for the quiet idling of the car. 2312 was closed again, the soccer mom in another universe behind the drapes.

I walked toward the car. The closer I got, the more the man seemed to lower his gaze.

What the hell, I thought. Why wouldn’t I get in the car? It’s not like they wanted to kill me. Although, my brain offered helpfully, most movie whackings did begin with the obligatory Get in the car. Was I crazy to get in? Was I crazy if I didn’t? Frankly, I didn’t have anywhere else to go. The interior looked nice. Tan leather seats. It appeared empty-was this all for me? One final question: would the driver karate-chop my neck as I tried to enter the car?

I slipped in. He shut the door behind me.

The windows were more than just tinted, it turned out; they were black. I couldn’t see anything. Another amusing feature of this automobile was the absence of door handles on the inside of my doors. The driver sat on the other side of a closed divider. Wherever he was going, I was coming along. All I could do was fix myself a drink at the mobile bar. I sat back and enjoyed the hum of the ride.

By my watch, we stopped an hour and a half later.

The door opened, and I stepped out onto a city block, noisy and bright. A high-rise loomed above me: a gray Art Deco building with flowers and medusas carved into the stone above the first floor of sooty windows. We were in the middle of a long block, and I couldn’t read a street sign in either direction. The driver stood back and nodded toward the building’s doorway. He lowered his head again, and this seemed like my cue to walk like an important man. Do you know who I am? my stride suggested to the indifferent pedestrians passing in both directions. The occasional car enthusiast glanced at my ride.

The doorman waved me in and smiled.

“Mr. Davis?”

“Yes.” He said my name like it meant something.

“Twenty-eighth floor, please. They’re expecting you.”

The elevator actually had an operator. He pulled the door shut and raised the lever. It was a fast ride with no stops. He decelerated to 28 and smiled pleasantly.

“Have a nice evening, sir.”

“You too.”

Was I supposed to tip? After the new suit, I was pretty sure I had less in my bank account than he did. I’d already decided I couldn’t ask my parents for extra money to make it until the spring student loan check. It was bad enough they went into debt to help with my Ivy League tuition. I wasn’t going to ask for more.

It occurred to me that I had no idea which room to go to. But at the end of the hall, I saw a door partly opened, with half of a very striking older woman, probably in her sixties, smiling at me.

Her hair was silver-white, cut midway between professional and sensual, swept back behind long ears. She reached up and pulled a few loose strands back with musician’s fingers, letting the nails trace along her ear. Her face was aristocratic. She wore a white blouse under a gray suit that clung to her slender, tall figure. As I got close, she said, “Please,” and stepped aside to let me in.