“You don’t know the half of it,” Martin says to Stanford, because he doesn’t. Martin imagines the mountain of money, an actual billion in coins piled up in some overlord’s cave, but his girl, his sharp lovely girl, is dating the goddamn overlord.

“I’m sorry,” Stanford says again. “When I go home and my cat—”

“You have a cat?”

“You’ve met the cat.”

“I thought the cat left with what’s-his-name last year.”

“Davey and I got the cat together,” Stanford says.

“Davey, I could never get used to that.”

“And we agreed at the split-up that the cat would go to whoever was doing less drugs at the time.”

“What are you saying, with the cat.”

“Forget it now. It was a story, and the point is—”

“The point is—?”

“When she’s chasing her tail,” Stanford says, “she is still, even when she’s never going to catch it, having a good time,” and Padgett walks into Bottle Grove. Stanford shoots God a look of Are you kidding me? and offers a quick trade, rejected, of another year of silence from his mother for the girl to disappear in a puff of smoke. No dice, she walks right up to the bar. Martin is staring like it’s the first time he’s seen an elephant. She walks OK, nowhere near as drunk as Martin is, but one arm hangs limp and useless like someone’s severed the nerve. She practically has to lift it with the other hand to plunk it down in front of Martin. It’s the left one, with a very large diamond on a ring on the ring finger.

“I’m going to excuse myself to the basement,” Stanford says, “with my cigarette lighter and a bunch of gasoline-soaked rags.”

He stomps off. The guy in the corner catches the vibe and scoots out, a nighttime appointment having been invented and remembered. Martin grabs a towel and wipes something with it, doesn’t matter what, very busy at the moment, busy busy. “How are you?” he says.

“Just walked out of a restaurant,” Padgett says, “threw my new phone into a gutter while I signaled the car with the light from this ring before I jumped out without paying, six blocks ago. I guess I’m impulsive.”

“And I guess congratulations are in order,” he says, without looking up.

“No, no,” Padgett corrects him fiercely. “Don’t blame you on me. You’re the one. This was your idea.”

“I know.”

“Then don’t—”

“I know. It’s like a sticky note nailed to my forehead. I thought of it.”