Our waiter came, took our drink orders, crept away silently on the deep carpet. Mulkern had said lunch, but all I saw on the table were glasses. Maybe they’d discovered a way to liquefy the menu.

Jim touched my shoulder. “You had quite a day yesterday.”

Sterling Mulkern held up the morning Trib. “A hero like your father now, lad.” He tapped the paper. “You’ve seen it?”

“I only read ‘Calvin and Hobbes,’“I said.

He said, “Yes, well...wonderful press, really. Great for business.”

“But not for Jenna Angeline.”

Mulkern shrugged. “Those who live by the sword...”

“She was a cleaning woman,” I said. “Closest she ever came to a sword was a letter opener, Senator.”

He gave me the same shrug and I saw that his mind wasn’t for the changing. People like Mulkern are used to creating the facts on their own, then letting the rest of us in.

“Patrick and I were wondering,” Angie said, “if the death of Ms. Angeline means our work for you is done.”

“Hardly, my dear,” he said. “Hardly. I hired Pat, and you as well, to find certain documents. Unless you’ve brought those to the table with you, you’re still working for me.”

Angie smiled. “Patrick and I work for ourselves, Senator.”

Jim looked at me, then down at his drink. Mulkern’s face stopped moving for a moment, then he raised his eyebrows, amused. He said, “Well, exactly why did I sign that check made out to your agency?”

Angie never missed a beat. “Service charges for the loan of our expertise, Senator.” She looked up as the waiter approached. “Ah, the drinks. Thank you.”

I could have kissed her.

Mulkern said, “Is that the way you see it, Pat?”

“Pretty much,” I said and sipped my beer.

“And, Pat,” Mulkern said, leaning back, gearing up for something, “does she usually do all the talking when you’re together? And all other duties, I’m assuming?”

Angie said, “She doesn’t appreciate being spoken of in the third person when she’s in the room, Senator.”

I said, “How many drinks you had, Senator?”

Jim said, “Please,” and held up his hand.

If this had been a saloon in the Old West, the place would have cleared about now, the loud rustling of fifty chairs pushing back from tables, wood scraping against wood. But it was a posh bar in Boston in the middle of a Saturday afternoon, and Mulkern didn’t look like he’d wear a six-gun real well. Too much belly. But then, in Boston, a gun never was much of a match for a signature in the proper place, or a well-chosen slur dropped at precisely the right moment.