Paul was now thriving in Los Angeles, which he had found was in nearly every way superior to places in the East. He was bathed in sunshine and cooled by breezes from the ocean twelve months a year. He had a good house high in the hills between Hollywood and the Valley, slightly on the valley side of the crest line. The location, landscaping, and architecture made the house very private. He could activate the automatic door of his garage, drive out and down the quiet, winding street behind the tinted glass of his BMW, and go anywhere. His neighbors, who had also paid millions to live on this secluded street, had no more desire to notice him than he had to be noticed.

467 LLC retained three assistants to do things for the man they called Brian Summers that most people had to do for themselves. They brought him food from restaurants, ensured that his car was maintained and clean, and answered his door and his phone. Twice a week two of them would go to pick up an escort from her apartment, drive her to Summers’s house, and later pay her and drive her home.

This morning while Summers was in the middle of one of his exercise routines in the privacy of his secluded backyard, the assistant in charge of Summers’s phone came out to the patio and handed it to him. When Summers answered, he recognized the voice on the other end as Charles’s. “Brian,” said Charles. “I have some news, and I don’t think it will be especially good news. A man named Matt has called your emergency number.”

“Did he say what was up?”

“He left a number.”

Brian held out his hand and fluttered his fingers, and the assistant handed him a pen and a small pad. “Okay, go ahead.”

Charles read the number, and Paul repeated it.

“Correct. I do have to remind you that whatever it is, you’ve got to abide by the rules the old men have dictated. They won’t help again.”

“I know. Thanks,” said Paul. “I don’t suppose there’s any news about the family for me.”

“No. I don’t know if it occurred to you before, but they have rules for me too. That’s one of them.”

“I figured. You were always better than I was at the rules. Thanks again. If we don’t get to talk again, have a good life.”

“You too. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.” He handed the phone back to the phone assistant. This wasn’t the first time it had occurred to him that his assistants weren’t only servants. They were also jailers. He said to this one, “Get me a phone I can use to call out.”