He looked repulsed, struck out, slapping me and wiping me simultaneously. Wiped his hand on the seat cushion.

“They didn't put me there right away. They put me in another dungeon first. Right across the street—can you believe that, two hellholes on the same street—what was it, zoned H1 for hell? A real shithole run by a nincompoop alkie, but expensive as hell, so, of course, Mumsy thought it was good, the woman was always such an arriviste.”

I tried to look like a fascinated student . . . still no sounds from the bedrooms.

Coburg said, “A nincompoop. Not even a challenge. A book of matches and some notebook paper.” Smile.

Firesetters and truants . . . Bancroft hadn't said the fire was at his school.

“Poor Mumsy was stymied, out on the next plane, the poor thing. This wonderful look of hopelessness on her face—and she such an educated woman. Crying as we waited for our taxi—I thought I'd finally scored a point. Then he walked over. From across the street. This goatish thing in a black suit and cheap shoes. Taking Mummy's hand, telling her he'd heard what had happened, tsk-tsking and letting her cry some more about her bad little boy. Then telling her his school could handle those kinds of things. Guaranteed. All the while tousling my hair—twelve years old and he was tousling my fucking hair. His hand stank of cabbage and bay rum.”

The gun hand wavered a bit . . . not enough.

Scratch, bump.

“Mummy was thrilled—she knew him from his magazine articles. A famous man willing to tame her wild child.” His free hand fluttered. “The cab came and she sent it off empty.”

The gun withdrew far enough for me to see its black snout, dark against his white knuckles.

Two hellholes on the same street. De Bosch exploiting Bancroft's failures. An alumnus of both schools, coming back years later, a tramp . . . the clean-cut face in front of me bore no street scars. But sometimes the wounds that healed weren't the important ones.

“Across the street I went. Mummy signed some papers and left me alone with Hitler. He smiled at me and said, “Andrew, little Andrew. We have the same name, let's be friends.' Me saying, “Fuck you, old goat.' He smiled again and patted my head. Took me down a long dark hall, shoved me into a cell, and locked it. I cried all night. When they let me out for lunch, I snuck into the kitchen and found matches.”

A wistful look came into his eyes.

“How thorough was I tonight? Did I leave anything standing at Casa del Shrinko?”

I remained silent.

The gun poked me. “Did I?”

“Not much.”