The maître d’ escorted Chip Craine through the lobby and out onto the drive. They waited together for the Bentley.

“Dean!” Craine fumbled in the pocket of his blazer and pulled out a thick wad of cash. He peeled off hundred-dollar bills like a game show host. “Dean, okay, I want you to give this to the black waiter, this to the blonde…The two guys who were clearing the plates can share a hundred. Here’s two hundred for the sommelier, and a hundred for the bartender.”

The host nodded, looking expectantly at the pile of cash on his flat palm. Craine continued, “And for you…one, two, three hundred.” He paused. “Will that cover it?”

“Well, Mr. Craine, you’re very generous, as always. But there’s the small problem of complaints. I told the Walters, who were sitting behind your table, that we’d take care of their dinner check…”

“You did?” Craine thought for a second. “Good thinking. Put it on my tab. And here’s another hundred.”

He tucked the rest of the money back into his blazer. “We’re good now?”

The host folded the thick stack into his pocket and nodded. “Yes, sir. We’re very good.”

The lights of the Bentley flooded the steps. The valet stopped at the porte cochère, but the host waved him on, past the main entrance to the club: kickbacks or not, Mr. Craine had caused enough trouble for one night.

He walked Craine to the car and said, “Sir, Mr. Canning has instructed us that the car keys are to be delivered to your daughter. He’s asked me to make sure you’re comfortable in the car until she returns.”

Craine grunted. He stood impassive as the valet swung the heavy door open for him, then asked him to move the passenger seat forward: he would sit in the backseat.

Once he was installed, the valet closed the door, hovering by the vehicle until Craine groggily pulled a fifty out of his pocket and handed it to him. Then the host and the valet left him to his own devices.

Craine sprawled back in the middle of the seat, arms outstretched wide, idly caressing the tan leather of the broad seat back.

Overhead, the sky was deep indigo, loaded with bright, distant stars.

He wondered how long his daughter would take to get over her little tantrum. He snorted: it was absurd how easily she worked herself into a mood.

His fingers drummed the seat back. He was bored.

He pulled out his phone to check for messages. Nothing.

A peaceful look settled across his face as he began to dial.

She answered on the second ring, her voice sweetly excited and expectant. She always answered on the second ring—he’d learned they always do, at that age.