“What is it you want from me?” Walter asked. It was a friendly question with no hint of hostility in his tone or manner. Abby felt comfortable in his company and he sensed it. She was glad he asked so directly.

“The document,” she replied. He nodded in understanding. He had asked a question that needed to be asked and she had answered it by saying what they both already knew. This was part of a dance, a necessary part. His next question was also expected.

“Why should Mr. Levine give it to you?”

“Because it’s the right thing to do.”

“If he felt as you do, don’t you think he would already have given it to you?”

“I am prepared to offer Mr. Levine an amount of money he’s only dreamed of.”

“That’s why he should give it to you? That’s why?”

“That is a great deal of why.”

“I know you—perhaps not personally—but as a Kennedy, you are guided by money, the power of money. I’m not sure Mr. Levine is motivated by money,” Walter said. “I’m not saying he isn’t. I’m only telling you I am not sure.”

“I’ve seen men quake in their boots, Walter, when the sort of money we are talking about is actually spoken out loud.”

“What sort of money are you talking about?” he asked.

“Am I bidding now? Is this money for Harry Levine or for you? Or for both of you?”

“I didn’t bring it up. You did.” Walter’s mood had changed visibly and for the worse. This kind of talk violated his sense of duty, his concept of himself, and it did so in more ways than one. He was not a negotiator. He did not strike deals. He located. He found. And then he walked away. Not this time. Chita Crystal had convinced him otherwise. Had she tricked him? He didn’t like it. And, more important, he wasn’t for sale, except by his own choosing. This woman, Abby O’Malley, was not his client. All discussion of a price—for him—was objectionable.

“I apologize, Walter.” She knew she had made a mistake and she sought to make amends, quickly. “I know you have no personal agenda here. I’m sorry. But tell me what Harry Levine wants,” Abby said. “I’m confident it will not be too much. And we will pay cash at the exchange or wire the money into any bank, anywhere in the world, any bank of Mr. Levine’s choosing.”

“What if Harry believes this is a document of historical significance and delivers it to the President of the United States?”

“That would not make us happy,” said Abby.

“Have you thought about the possibility that others want this document for reasons that must be obviously different than yours?”

“I’ll worry about them when I have the document.”

“If there are others, who knows why they want the document so badly they would kill for it. The intensity of their need might dwarf yours. They might think your concerns are meaningless—to them, anyway. Others might get the document and simply disregard the revelations about Lacey’s relations with the Kennedy family. Others might pay more than you.” Abby offered no response. She sipped her beer, popped the last bite of the fried grouper in her mouth and looked at Walter out of the corner of her eye, like a schoolteacher might stare down a smart-ass student. “If there are men or forces willing to kill Harry Levine to get their hands on Lacey’s confession—and if Harry gave the document to you—don’t you think, in order to get it for themselves, they might be willing to kill you too?”

“Well, anything is possible. True,” she finally concurred, still chewing. “This is good,” she added, pointing at her empty plate. “You ought to try it.”

“Do you know a man named Louis Devereaux?” Walter asked.

“Who?” she answered. But it was too late. Walter caught the surprise. Abby was not schooled at this kind of thing. She was unable to hide her lie.

“Never mind,” he said. “I don’t know what Harry Levine will do, Abby. I wish I could tell you, but I can’t. I’ll take your offer to him. I’ll let you know what he says.”

“As soon as possible, I hope,” she said. She badly wanted to say, “No! I can’t wait. Give me that document now, or else!” Louis was right, again. Walter Sherman knew perfectly well she was harmless. Threats would be useless. She would look foolish, or worse. Reason probably would not work either. Walter had to know the effect Lacey’s confession would have if it was ever made public. She was left only with the underlying strength of the Kennedy family, the foundation of its power. She prayed money would come through as it almost always did.

On her way out, Abby stopped to thank Ike. She said she would love to have a drink with him next time. Ike watched her walk across the square. A car he did not recognize pulled up to the curb. She got in the back seat and it drove off.

“Walter,” said Ike, ten minutes later. “Can I ask you something?”

“Go ahead.”

“Seems to me there’s been more than a few people come to see you here in Billy’s. Over time, I mean. More than a few I’ve seen with my own eyes. Now, I know you keep things close, but it appears to me that when these people come to talk business, you pick yourself up and leave—with them or without them.” The old man awaited confirmation from his friend.

“Okay,” said Walter.

“But this woman—and I like her, like her just fine—you must have talked for half an hour, maybe more. I wasn’t watching all the time. Right?”

“Okay.”

“Well, here’s what I want to know. Why? What’s different about this one? Why here? You know what I mean?”

“I do,” Walter said.

“And?”

“And, what?”

“So you ain’t talking, is that it?” said Ike. “You ain’t talking. I’m asking you and you ain’t talking?”

“I can’t help this one,” Walter said. “I can’t help her.”

“Oh, well, in that case . . . I’m sorry, Walter. I didn’t mean . . .”

“It’s okay, Ike.”