CHAPTER NINE

The meeting with Slater in Hayward went fine. When he showed up Monday morning, he didn’t seem to have any sort of secret agenda. Martin knew that he might be just biding his time, playing good cop for a while. But Slater really had seemed fairly normal, as if the first encounter at Martin’s house had broken the ice and they were now on friendly terms. He’d even mentioned Peter’s birthday and the A’s game.

“He’s a cute kid,” Slater said.

“Thanks,” Martin said as he handed over the file on the pot smuggler. “I think he liked you, too.”

Martin knew better than to think that his worries were over, but he was pretty sure that Slater wasn’t on to anything yet.

His hope was that the rest of the day would go just as smoothly. The plan was to drive up to Berkeley for a late lunch (and drinks) at Spenger’s, the fish place down by the bay, on Fourth Street. He and Ludwig were going to meet up with Radkovitch, and go over the meeting with the Wells Fargo guys that Radkovitch had finally been able to set up. Martin was dreading the meeting, but he was glad for the excuse to get out of the office and away from the increasing claustrophobia he was feeling there, bouncing around, waiting for buyers who didn’t seem to exist anymore. And he didn’t want to hear anything bad from Radkovitch while sitting in the office. He needed to be out, have a drink in his hand.

But just as they were locking up the office for the day—Martin was literally standing outside, with the key in the door—the guy with the white 240z came driving up. Holy shit, Martin thought. That’s him. Better, Martin saw that he was with a woman—younger, mid- to late twenties. Definitely not thirty, even. Not bad-looking, either. Long brown hair, tight jeans, boots.

How about that, Martin thought. Maybe he’ll want to impress her, let her see that he knows how to make a deal.

“Hey,” Ludwig said. “Is this your guy?”

“I think so,” Martin said. He noticed that the guy was dressed in the same white sweater and jeans that he’d been wearing the day he stopped by the office. “Or else it’s someone dressed up like him, and in his car.”

“Wow,” Ludwig said. “Great. Who’s the girl?”

“I don’t know,” Martin said. He gave Ludwig a sideways look, and then walked down to say hello to the guy and his girlfriend (he wasn’t sure why he was assuming she was his girlfriend . . . maybe she was just a friend with a passion for airplanes).

“Hey there!” Martin said, smiling and squinting in the afternoon sunlight. He wanted to seem animated, but he didn’t want to overdo it, either.

“Hello!” the guy said, kind of shouted, actually, and then waved to Martin. He walked over and put out his hand for Martin to shake. He used one of those irritating overhand shakes, the one where the hand starts high, up around the shoulder, and then descends into yours. Kind of ridiculous—definitely a fraternity handshake.

The guy started talking right away. He was sorry he hadn’t made it by the other day, and sorry he hadn’t phoned. Everything had gotten crazy, he said, and then he’d lost Martin’s card, and so on. But was there still time to check out the plane they talked about?

“Definitely,” Martin said. “Absolutely.”

Martin, the guy, and his girlfriend were in the air within half an hour. (Ludwig had offered to come along, but Martin said no.) They went up in the 1970 Cessna 177 A Cardinal that Martin had had on the lot for a while now. Close to a year. But it was the plane the guy had been interested in, which was exciting. Martin explained that it was the model that Cessna had put out to replace the earlier Cessna 172. The 172 was a good plane, he said, but it was a little bit underpowered (as was the original 177). The 177A had a 180-horsepower engine, so it could climb more quickly: the initial rate of climb was about 650 feet per minute. It also had a higher cruising speed: about 110 knots, or 125 mph, at least on a nice day. And it was a good plane for aerial photos, which was what the guy had said he wanted. This was because the Cardinal didn’t have the old wing support strut that was always in the way when you wanted to take photos of anything directly below. (What Martin didn’t say, of course, was that the guy should really be looking for a 177RG. That was the plane that provided the big improvements on the earlier models of the 172 and 177s, yet stayed within the ballpark, pricewise. Plus, the RG didn’t have the handling problems—the pilotinduced oscillation—that plagued the first 177. But Martin didn’t have an RG on the lot, so forget it.)

They cruised across the bay, over the Bay Bridge, Treasure Island, and Alcatraz, and then shot out across the Golden Gate Bridge. It was a nice day. The fog was starting to make its way in under the Golden Gate, but the air was still too warm on the bay side for it to be able to really stay thick and blanket the area. That would happen eventually—by midnight or early morning, maybe—but for now there were just wisps of fog streaking along the top of the water by the bridge. From their vantage point, about three thousand feet up, you could still see the rugged coastline through the fog, its gray rocks pounded by angry breakers. It looked wild, almost prehistoric.

“Isn’t it amazing from up here?” he said to the couple. He had to shout a bit over the din of the engine. “Can you imagine what the first explorers must have thought when they sailed into the bay? Who was it? Sir Francis Drake?”

He’d posed these questions to potential buyers plenty of times before, and usually they were eager to respond, eager to look out the window and imagine a time when the bay and the surrounding hillsides were utterly pristine. But not this time. The couple nodded, but he could tell they weren’t paying attention.

“That’s where we go fishing on the weekends,” he shouted to them a while later. “My kids love it. Especially my son. We even went out with Sal Bando last month. You know, from the A’s? The team captain?”

His absurd lie had leapt forth from his mouth completely unbidden. It was like when someone startled you and you shouted involuntarily. That was it—it had been involuntary. He noted with some surprise that he’d been lying fairly regularly lately. There was the one he’d told Hano about selling a plane to Reggie Jackson; but he’d also told a guy at the track last month that in high school he’d been all-city in football, at linebacker, though in fact he’d never played a down of organized football; and he’d told yet another guy at the club that he’d gotten a business degree at Berkeley. It was a little unsettling.

But up above the San Francisco Bay and swinging back toward Hayward, he thought that if a few white lies helped make a sale, what difference did it make? Maybe they’d strike up a conversation about the A’s, and that would be the clincher.

Of course that didn’t happen, though. He tried yakking at the guy about the plane some more, the downward-tipped conical wingtips and a few other things, but something had happened. Every few minutes the guy tossed him a couple of questions about the plane (he did know what he was talking about, Martin had to admit that). But when Martin answered with real energy, the guy just nodded. He really wasn’t paying attention. It was like when you asked your wife or kids about their day. Sometimes you stopped listening even before they started talking. Martin was pretty sure that was what was happening here.

Twenty minutes later they were back on the ground, and Martin was shaking hands with the guy.

“How’d it go?” Ludwig asked, smiling and looking right at the girlfriend. But she just looked at her boyfriend and gave him a “let’s get out of here” nudge.

And that’s what they did. No sooner had Martin let go of the guy’s hand than they jumped into their Datsun, waving absently and speeding away. Watching the car turn out of the lot area, Martin knew he’d never see them again—that they had vanished into the busy mix of the Bay Area like figures gliding silently into the fog that would push its way across the water and onto the coastline within the next twenty-four hours.

“Huh,” Martin said to Ludwig. “I thought when he came back that we had a chance. A good chance, actually.”

“Yeah,” Ludwig said. “Me, too. But you never know, do you?”

“No,” Martin said. “I guess not.”

They stood there for a few seconds at the bottom of the office steps. It was getting chilly.

“So do you think she’ll call me?” Ludwig asked. “I mean, I gave her my card and everything. You know, just in case.”

Martin looked over at him. “No,” he said. “I really don’t think she’s going to call.”

Ludwig was quiet for another second. “I think you’re right,” he said. “She’s not going to call.”

MARTIN HAD WANTED TO drive to Spenger’s, but Ludwig insisted. Once they were under way, though, he was pleased to be speeding around in Ludwig’s gray 1969 bmw 2002, the bay popping in and out of view as they zipped north along the freeway. The clouds hadn’t cleared and you could feel the fog closing in, but it was still a nice day. It was almost two; they were both hungry, and Martin was desperate for a drink.

Spenger’s was a regular routine for Martin, especially on Fridays. It was semi-regular for Ludwig. Sometimes they’d meet Jenny. But usually it was just Martin, Ludwig, and maybe one or two other guys. Linda never came. They drank too much, she said (Jenny included), and when they drank too much they were cruder and more obnoxious than usual (and here she included Jenny again). “And someone’s gotta be there when the kids get home, you know,” she’d said more than once, usually with a little edge to her voice.

Not long ago Martin could have counted on Beaton as well, but, of course, those days were over. Martin missed Beaton, but he was also plagued with guilt about firing him, and so it was a relief to think he probably wouldn’t see him around. Beaton didn’t seem to go to Spenger’s anymore, at least not for lunch. Martin loved it there. He loved that it had been in business since the nineteenth century, when guys like Jack London were prowling around Berkeley and Oakland, writing books about sled dogs and wolves and Alaska. He loved the old-time nautical atmosphere: the brass instruments, the big stuffed marlin and tuna, the fishing nets. But even more he loved the hustle and bustle of the place. There was always a wait for one of the forty or fifty wooden dining tables, so there was sure to be a big crowd at the bar. Standing there waiting to eat, downing drinks, you had to yell to be heard. Martin felt that the noise made things more intimate: you had to lean close to someone’s ear to really make a point, grabbing his arm or putting a hand on his back—or hers.

They saw Radkovitch on the sidewalk. He was wearing a navy blue blazer, light blue dress shirt, and charcoal-gray pants. It looked like he was wearing his nice Oxford shoes.

“Jesus,” Ludwig said as he pulled the car into the lot across the street. “There he is. Look at the fucking guy.” He put the car into park and yanked up hard on the emergency break.

Martin knew exactly what Ludwig meant. Radkovitch stood out in a crowd. That’s all there was to it. It was the whole package—the looks, the general air of confidence and sophistication. And it was obvious that women ate it up. But he didn’t walk around like some sort of alpha dog, rubbing it in your face. In fact, there were times when Martin wasn’t sure if Radkovitch even knew he was so handsome or that women were dying for him. Even that was maddening. “I’m kind of amazing, but I don’t really seem to know it.” That kind of thing. Martin had been out with him at Spenger’s before, talking about the business, and it was like being out with Cary Grant, for Christ’s sake. A couple of months ago, a woman had bought him a drink, right out of the blue. Martin had wondered if Radkovitch was going to try to chat her up, or at least return the favor and buy her a drink. But he just waved to the woman, raised his glass, and mouthed “thank you.” He hadn’t even seemed fazed, which to Martin meant he was used to it. Martin remembered the feeling as he sat there: he was the other guy, the one who hadn’t had a drink sent over to him. And the reason no one had sent one to him was that no one could see him. He was used to women preferring Ludwig over him, but this was different. With Radkovitch he felt invisible.

They sat in Ludwig’s car and watched Radkovitch for another few seconds. Radkovitch hadn’t seen them yet. He fidgeted, looking up and down the street, and then at his watch.

“He looks like he’s waiting to catch a cab,” Ludwig said. “Maybe he got tired of waiting for us. If we wait a few minutes, he might leave. He probably doesn’t like Spenger’s, anyway.”

Martin sighed. “Okay, okay,” he said. “I know. Look, he bugs me, too. Although I don’t know—he’s all right, I guess. He’s just kind of uptight.”

“All right,” Ludwig said, looking over at Martin. “But he drives me fucking crazy. He’s so smug. And so . . . I don’t know. Just kind of pleased with himself. You know?”

Martin nodded. He knew Ludwig resented Radkovitch because Beaton had been fired to clear space for him. But he also knew that Radkovitch made Ludwig feel insecure. It was the Stanford degree, the work at Merrill Lynch and all that, but it was also his family money. Radkovitch’s dad was a big Wall Street executive in New York City, one of the guys who really did have his hands on the country’s purse strings. Ludwig’s dad had been a construction guy of some sort for a big contractor in the Bay Area. Martin couldn’t remember which one. But he’d never been more than a foreman, running around job sites with a clipboard. Working his ass off, basically. Not that Ludwig wasn’t educated. Unlike Martin, he’d gone to an actual four-year college (San Jose State). But he’d dropped out just before graduating. His father had died, he had two younger brothers and a sister still in high school or maybe even junior high, and so he had to go get a full-time job. No more school. It was a sore spot for him, and a guy like Radkovitch was salt in the wound.

Martin pulled the handle on his passenger-side door, but paused to look over at Ludwig and make eye contact with him. “Look,” he said. “This is work, all right? Don’t get into it with him. It’s not worth it, and especially not right now.”

“Okay,” Ludwig said. “But he’s not going out with us later, is he? What if we go to the track?”

“I don’t know,” Martin said. “No. Maybe.”

“Hey,” Ludwig said as they stood waiting for a couple of cars to pass before crossing the street. “Do you know why Jews like to watch porno films in reverse?”

Martin looked at him as he buttoned up his coat. It was getting cold. Summer in the Bay Area. “What?” he said.

“It’s a joke,” Ludwig said, smiling. “Why do Jews like to watch pornos backward—in reverse?”

Martin smiled back at him. He’d never heard this one before.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Why?”

“Because,” Ludwig said, “they like to watch the part where the hooker gives the money back.”

Martin snorted and shook his head, and they half-jogged, half-walked across the street. Terrible, he thought. Terrible, but kind of funny.

Martin thought Radkovitch looked a little annoyed that they were late, but he didn’t call them on it. You could hear the din of the lunch crowd even from the sidewalk.

“I’m sorry it took so long,” Martin said. “I ended up having to take a guy up in a plane. One of the Cessnas, the 177 A. He came by a while ago, and then stopped in again just as we were leaving. We flew around the bay. Him and his girlfriend.”

“Great,” Radkovitch said. “How’d it go? What do you think?”

Martin nodded. “I think it went pretty well,” he said. He could feel Ludwig looking at him but didn’t return his glance. “I think he’s on the hook.”

THEY HAD DRINKS IN the bar area while they waited for a table. Ludwig and Radkovitch had bourbon, and Martin had a gin and tonic. It was too loud to do much but look around at the other people. Ludwig saw some friends and wandered away, signaling that he’d be back.

A minute later Martin and Radkovitch were seated at a table, back in the far corner of the big dining room. It was actually best that Ludwig wasn’t around. Maybe he’d known that, and that was why he’d drifted away—but probably not.

Martin knew he was supposed to chat with Radkovitch, break the ice a little bit, but he wasn’t up for small talk. He was more nervous than he’d realized—if the Wells Fargo guys had said no, he was in a lot of trouble. Sure, Val’s money helped, but it wasn’t enough. He’d have to set up a daily shuttle to and from Mexico to get out of the hole he was in.

He looked across the table at Radkovitch, but he didn’t know where to begin. He felt tired, suddenly—as if he’d reached the end of a long journey. He was returning to his home city, one he’d been told was under siege. It had been surrounded for weeks by an invading army of Huns, and reinforcements and supplies were badly needed. People were dying in the city—not just soldiers, but women and children. His wife and his children. They were looking at total annihilation. The problem was that he knew he might be arriving too late, after the city had been sacked, and after his family and friends had been slaughtered or maybe carried away into slavery and misery.

“Okay, so, Anton,” Martin said. “How’d it go today? You know, with Wells Fargo and everything?”

Radkovitch shrugged and glanced away, off at the crowd at the bar. Martin followed his gaze (no sign of Ludwig), then looked back at Radkovitch.

“Well,” Radkovitch said. He paused, and Martin could tell he was thinking about how to proceed. “Not great. It didn’t go so well.”

Radkovitch looked down at the table, then up at Martin. He tried to give Martin a reassuring look, a kind of half smile, but it looked more like a wince. Martin felt a little bit sick, suddenly.

“Not great?” Martin asked, echoing Radkovitch. “It didn’t go so well?” It was quieter at the table than it had been at the bar, but it was still hard to hear perfectly well. “I thought you said that they liked the look of things. What the fuck, Anton? What happened?”

Radkovitch shrugged again. He coughed, took a sip of his drink. He wiped a little bit of sweat off of his forehead. Martin could see that this was making Radkovitch uncomfortable.

“If you’ll recall,” Radkovitch said, “what I actually told you was that I wasn’t really sure—wasn’t one hundred percent sure—what they’d say. That it wasn’t a sure thing. I know I told you that.”

Martin rolled his eyes. He knew he was being theatrical, but he couldn’t help it. What right did he have to be surprised? His business was in the shit can. He was buried under mountains of debt. Of course they’d said no. But he felt indignant anyway. Outraged, even.

“What the hell am I paying you for?” he asked. Or yelled—it seemed as if the restaurant was getting louder by the minute. He should have chosen a better place to meet, but this was his safe zone. Or so he’d thought.

Radkovitch shook his head. He looked like he was about to respond to Martin when the waitress walked up to their table, and so he stopped himself, leaned back and waited. Martin recognized her, and thought she might recognize him as well, if only vaguely. He was pretty sure she was a student of some sort. Kind of attractive. Blond. A little on the thin side. Maybe an athlete. Martin felt the urge to reach out and hug her, pull her onto his lap—not in a sexual way, but to soak up some of her youth and potential.

The waitress took their orders for lunch and more drinks (or Martin’s order for another drink; Radkovitch was holding steady with his first bourbon, which irritated Martin). Radkovitch took a big breath, but Martin cut him off.

“Look, Anton,” he said. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have jumped on you. I apologize. It’s just that I—I guess I’m a little freaked out right now. I thought this was going to work out. Not that it was a sure thing, but . . . you know.”

“Martin,” Radkovitch said. He spread his hands out on the table, looking down and concentrating. Martin knew he was trying to pick his words carefully. “I think you should have been more up front with me—and with them—about the lien on your inventory—on the planes.”

Martin nodded. “Okay,” he said. “What did they say? What do you mean?”

“They were upset that you listed them as assets.” Radkovitch looked up, and made eye contact with Martin, raising his eyebrows. There was a hint of reprimand in the gesture, Martin realized.

“Well, aren’t they?” Martin asked. “Or can’t they be?”

“They aren’t assets if they’re already listed as collateral on another loan,” Radkovitch said. “You know that, don’t you? You don’t really even own them.”

Martin felt desperate. This wasn’t the conversation he’d expected. He looked around the room and saw Ludwig, drink in hand. He was talking and joking with people Martin didn’t know. A younger crowd, from the looks of it.

Martin looked back at Radkovitch. “Okay,” he said. “Fine.” He took a deep breath, and let it out, slowly. He wanted to get this conversation over with before Ludwig rejoined them. “So what are we talking about here? What’s the bottom line? Are they giving us the money or not?”

Radkovitch shook his head, a series of tight, quick side-to-side movements. “No,” he said, and then pursed his lips. “Definitely not.” He picked up his glass but set it down without drinking from it. He rubbed his hand on the table, forward and backward a couple of times.

Martin sat there, feeling numb. As if he’d just been in a car accident. Not a bad one, but one in which you might be hurt, and you were sitting there, not sure yet if you were really injured—not sure what had just happened, in fact. One minute you’re driving, the next minute—wham! He took a deep breath, started to say something, then realized he didn’t have anything to say.

“Oh,” he said.

“Listen,” Radkovitch said. “I know you’re upset. But don’t forget about the Buick dealership. That’s still on the table. It’s a good option, Martin. It’s something we should consider.”

Radkovitch kept talking, but Martin started to tune him out. He thought for a second that he knew now how Al Pacino’s character felt in that scene in The Godfather, the one where he’s at the restaurant with the Italian mobster and the big Irish cop. They’re trying to take over the family business, they’ve tried to kill his father, Marlon Brando, and now Al Pacino is going to kill them. Only they don’t know it, and he’s trying to work up the courage to do it. He’s sitting there listening to the mobster, who’s speaking Italian, and you can tell Pacino isn’t really paying attention to what the guy’s saying to him—because he’s about to shoot him.

That was how he felt sitting there with Radkovitch. He liked the reference, because it allowed him to think for a second about standing up and shooting Radkovitch. He’d stand up like Al Pacino had, with his surprise pistol, and pop him right in the throat, or in the forehead. Blam, blam. Fuck you, you spoiled brat. Everyone in the restaurant would spin around at the noise, would see him standing there over Radkovitch as he lay bleeding on the floor. And then (just as Al Pacino had been instructed in the movie) Martin would drop the pistol, and wouldn’t make eye contact with anyone . . . except maybe Ludwig, who’d probably give him a look that suggested he was both horrified and impressed. Then he’d head out the door into a new life. Maybe to Hawaii. How much would a ticket to Hawaii cost if he just walked into San Francisco International an hour from now and said “I need a one-way to Honolulu”?

Radkovitch’s voice drifted back in. It was more shit about the Buick guys, about landing on his feet. Across the room Martin saw Ludwig again. But to his surprise, Martin saw that Ludwig was now standing over there talking to Beaton. They were scanning the room now, and it was only a matter of seconds before they all made eye contact.

“Listen,” Martin said. “I’m not feeling so hot. I’ve gotta get out of here.”

He pushed his chair back and threw some money on the table. He didn’t know how much, exactly, but it was more than enough to cover the tab.

“Okay,” Radkovitch said. He looked surprised, but also a little embarrassed, either at having been rude or because Martin was unraveling. It was the latter, Martin knew. Definitely.

Martin was about to stand up when he saw that Ludwig was suddenly standing at their table.

“Hey, guys,” he said. Beaton was with him. He was standing there next to Ludwig, staring down at Radkovitch with a frozen smile on his face. He looked a little drunk.

Shit, Martin thought. What the fuck was Ludwig thinking?

“Ron,” Martin said. He stood up quickly, put his hand out to Beaton. Beaton hesitated for a quick second, but then he reached out and took Martin’s hand. They looked at each other, and Martin felt a sudden rush of relief. It was good to see Beaton again. And, though he wasn’t certain, Martin felt as if Beaton was glad to see him as well.

“Hiya, Martin,” Beaton said. Then he glanced down again at Radkovitch, who was still sitting. It was obvious that Beaton knew who he was; either Ludwig had told him or it was just that easy to figure out.

“Oh, hey—yeah,” Martin said. He gestured toward Radkovitch. “Ron, this is Anton Radkovitch. Anton, this is Ron Beaton. Ron used to work for us—for Anderson Aircrafts.”

Radkovitch stood up quickly and put his hand out to shake hands with Beaton. “Sure,” he said. “Right. Nice to meet you.”

“That’s right,” Ludwig said, putting his arm around Beaton and gesturing toward Radkovitch. “This is our new finance guru, Ron. He’s a fucking wonder boy. He’s gonna save the business. In fact, he’s gonna save the whole fucking economy. He’s gonna call his pal Kissinger, and they’re gonna get together and fix things up. Isn’t that right, Raddy?”

There was a pause as everyone looked over at Ludwig. He was smiling, but he looked drunk and pissed off. Martin knew he should intervene, but he felt frozen.

Radkovitch let out a little chuckle and then shook his head. “No, Ludwig,” he said. “You’ve got it all wrong. You don’t want a Jew meddling with the economy. I mean, you know why money’s green, don’t you?”

There was a pause as everyone looked over to Radkovitch, and then back at Ludwig again. Ludwig shrugged. “I don’t know, Raddy,” he said. “Tell me.”

“Because Jews pick it before it’s ripe,” he said.

There was another pause, and Martin could hear the wheels turning—in his own head, and in everyone else’s (except Radkovitch’s, of course). And then he started to laugh, along with Beaton, and even Ludwig. And then Radkovitch laughed, too.

“Ha,” Martin said. “That’s a good one, Anton.” He clapped Radkovitch on the shoulder. It was a good move—kind of ballsy, he thought. Take Ludwig’s comment and throw it right back in his face.

Beaton smiled and patted Ludwig on the back. Then he grabbed a chair and sat down.

“Come on, Ludwig,” he said. “Sit down. Let’s have a drink.”

MARTIN GOT HOME EARLY. He was in a good mood—even took the kids out to the local A&W for root beer floats. He was glad to have made contact with Beaton again. He was a good guy. Maybe he should’ve fired Ludwig instead. Ludwig could be a real fuckhead, no doubt about it. Beaton was no prince, but he’d never pull the kind of stunt that Ludwig had at Spenger’s. Imagine. He’d basically called the guy a Jew to his face.

He went to bed still feeling enthused, but he woke up a few hours later to the sound of Peter calling him.

Martin hopped out of bed, cursing quietly. Why tonight? Peter’s nightmares had been less frequent than they had been a few years ago; for a while he’d woken up almost every night. Martin, who was a much lighter sleeper than Linda, would get up, hustle into his room, and get into bed with him. It was a bad habit, but all he cared about was getting Peter back to sleep as quickly as possible. If he was awake for too long—anything more than a minute or two—he wouldn’t go back to sleep for at least an hour. Maybe two, even.

Peter had had a dream about the story Martin had told them on the way home from the A&W. They’d been driving along with the windows rolled down and a pleasantly warm breeze moving through the car, when Peter had complained about the smell of road kill. It really did stink. But trying to be funny, Martin said it wasn’t road kill that smelled so bad, but that the whole area was built on an ancient Indian burial ground. What Peter smelled were the corpses of those Indians as they were rising from the dead to enact revenge on modern society for its recklessness and bad behavior. Sarah had given him a roll of the eyes, and Peter had given him his standard, “Yeah, right, Dad.” But clearly it had gotten to Peter.

Martin climbed in next to him and within minutes, Peter fell back asleep. Martin fell asleep, too. And then it was his turn to have a nightmare. He dreamed that his own body was rotting, and because it was summer and hot, his skin was starting to liquefy, and he was giving off a horrible stench. The only thing that would combat the smell was an expensive cologne from the men’s department in I. Magnin’s, in Union Square. Linda drove him across the Bay Bridge with the air-conditioning cranked up as high as it would go in an effort to keep him from melting and smelling. The kids turned their faces away and held their noses.

He woke up in the morning to the dog licking his face. Surely it was Arrow’s breath that brought on the dream. But as he lay there, still trying to wake up, Martin was convinced that he smelled rot. It was as if the scent of his dream body was trapped in his nostrils. He felt to see if his flesh was staying in place, or if it was starting to slide off the bed. He couldn’t figure out why the dream wouldn’t go away. Jesus, he thought. I’ve gotta get my shit together.

He thought about the conversation he’d had with Radkovitch when they were leaving Spenger’s. Martin had stopped him as he was getting into his car. It was a green 1972 Alpha Romeo. A 1300 GT. A nice car, Martin had thought more than a few times. And one that hit just the right note. It was stylish, even a little sporty, without seeming like he was trying too hard. It was a nice car.

“Listen, Raddy,” Martin had said. “The Buick thing. I’ll think about it. But I’ve got a few things I might be able to fall back on. I think I can come up with something, if you give me a chance. If you can call the dogs off for a while.”

Radkovitch had looked at Martin for a second, then nodded, mouth set. It was his best earnest look, Martin knew. The problem was that, the more Martin saw it, the less certain he was whether it reflected real earnestness and interest or something feigned and maybe a little affected.

“Sure thing, Martin,” Radkovitch had said. “It was just an idea. I think it’s a good one, but it’s just a suggestion. Don’t worry, though. We’ll work this thing out, one way or the other.”

Martin stood there as Radkovitch got into his car and then rolled down the window.

“And besides,” Radkovitch said, raising his voice over the sound of his engine and smiling. “If nothing else works, I’ll call Kissinger and we’ll cut a deal with the Arabs, get the oil flowing.”

Martin laughed and waved as he drove off, but even as he’d hustled over to where Ludwig was waiting for him in his car, he’d known that no one was going to be calling Kissinger on his behalf. And even if that were to happen (and it wasn’t), Kissinger wouldn’t have known who he was, and wouldn’t have cared.

“Martin who?” Kissinger would say. “Never heard of him. Is this really something we need to talk about?”

“Never mind,” Radkovitch would say. “Forget it. He’s no one.”