Martin grins and, with an eye toward keeping his pants clean, kneels to look under the van with very little hope. “Um, as I see it,” he says, and back in the clubhouse they both hear the rise and fall of the vicar’s practicing words, pronounced oddly as if he doesn’t believe them, or doesn’t know what they mean, more precious than rubies, before a new song kicks in. “You? Me and Stanford with the limes in there? All that food? We’re all doing this for the money. Have you been to San Francisco in the past ten years? It’s a miracle this place isn’t condos, that the clubhouse still sits here affordably on this here real estate. The Vic gets another nickel every time another hit plays, because it’s his what’s-it the Nickels are using. Money. This is the system we have going here.”

“I know. I just mean—”

“Even Lil’s here for the money.”

“Lil?” Padgett says, in disbelief.

“For the board, anyway, which is money. Lil is the lady who—”

“I know who Lil is.”

“Then why—”

“You don’t know, let me tell you, it’s just that I already got paid. They paid me, so I do not as of now really give a fuck.”

Martin is standing up, grinning at her like a silly gift. Doing it for the money, he thinks, like that’s the interesting thing about her. The only people who would say such a thing either had piles of it—trust-funded or, more likely in this town, got in early on some digital contrivance—or were the rarity of genuinely not caring. Martin wants to find out which one, who she is. On the other hand, she might not stick around long enough to give up the answer, not if she’s really been paid like she says. What kind of fool, Martin thinks, would give this dame the money first?

“Stop looking at me.”

“Sorry.” He frowns into the van like it’s an old fortune-telling toy. Try again later.

“I’m not looking for that. Just because I’m drinking.”

“At two.”

Padgett smiles at her little wristwatch. “It’s almost four.”

“And you started I’m guessing earlier than right this minute.”

She raises the mouthwash and says, “To the nickels,” but he doesn’t know if she means money or the happy couple. Right, the barrel.

“There were definitely eight barrels in this van,” he says, “and definitely seven in the clubhouse.”

“Someone need a calculator?”

It’s the tall woman, the movie star hairdo, her legs uncertain and clattery like the first time with chopsticks. Her shoes, too, are a little much, and Martin watches her waver. “We’re looking for something,” he tells her.

“Well, I thought I saw something,” the woman says, and her hand wavers too, out past the porch. “It was kind of. Kind of. Kind. Of.”