Fishblate entered and took off his hat and coat. He smiled. It felt good to be treated with some respect for a change. A short time ago, he had been a man to be reckoned with in this city. But this new crowd had left him out of everything. How had it all changed so suddenly?

“Come into the study,” Waddell said. “The maid has gone home, of course, but Miz Gabby is asleep upstairs, so we must talk gently.” Bessie King and her daughter Saffron were, in fact, asleep in his own back room, but he had no idea.

Waddell settled into a leather chair, and Fishblate sat down in its mate, waiting for Colonel Waddell to explain why he had summoned him.

Waddell waited a suspenseful interval, then said, “Solly—may I call you Solly, sir?” Fishblate nodded, hat in his hands. “Solly, you and I have been relegated to the margins of things. Left out in the cold, so to speak.”

“Yes, we have.”

“They—I mean the men who are running this particular show—call on us when they need us, then conveniently shunt us aside. Am I right?”

“Indeed you are, Colonel.”

“There prevails a certain, shall we say, ingratitude?”

Fishblate nodded vigorously. “They forget the sacrifices certain parties have made in their interest.”

“Exactly.” Waddell clapped his hands together lightly. “And I’m forgetting my manners—may I offer you some refreshment? Wine or brandy?”

“Brandy, if you please.”

The Colonel poured him a full snifter. Now, this was more like it—being waited on by the blue bloods. Here was a man who appreciated his standing in the world.

They settled back with their brandies. “You are aware of the meeting tomorrow,” Waddell said.

“Of course. Would I forget a meeting at which I am to preside?” They had asked him to preside as a sop, he knew. As he understood it, the meeting would be largely ceremonial. They got the meat, he got the scraps.

Waddell chuckled. “I mean no disrespect. It was only a way of broaching the subject. They’ve asked you to chair the meeting because you enjoy, shall we say, a certain influence over the Red Shirts.”

“Lot of those Micks, they come from my district. MacRae figures I can keep them in line.”

“Can you?”

“Of course not. Mike Dowling, that hothead. Brains of a turnip. Nobody can keep that crowd in line. Any day now, boom. They’re going to blow off.”

“But MacRae’s people don’t know that.”

Fishblate shrugged. “Why tell a person what he doesn’t want to hear?”

Waddell rose and paced the room with difficulty—his legs were stiffening up something fierce in this chill. “No doubt they also want to show that they have the backing of the former administration.”

“No doubt.”

“Then, sir, I have a proposition.”