Calabash rubbed his first two fingers against his thumb. “Lucre, son. Lucre. But somebody got crossed, and old Solly—who’s now a Redeemer, which is nothing but a low subspecies of Democrat—wants his job back. Then we have a Republican judge—or maybe he’s a Fusionist, I can’t keep them straight—who’s slapped an injunction on the Harriss crowd. McLGreen, he was a Reform Democrat last week. This week, he may be a Populist, which is really just a recycled Jeffersonian Democrat who hates the way the railroads have leveraged their capital with rate-fixing and bonds paid for by taxpayers. Then again, he may be a Free Silverite by now—like Mr. Keith down the wharf.” He drained his schooner. “Got all that?”

Sam shook his head. So that’s the way it was: worse than Chicago. “Not even a little bit.”

“Good,” Calabash said. “Now, forget everything I just said.”

Sam just stared, not sure if he should laugh.

“You ever find yourself actually understanding all the political shenanigans in this town, you get back on that train before they lock you up with the imbecile children at City-County.” He called for the waiter. “Can we get some whiskey here, please? It’s almost ten o’clock in the morning—a man could die of dehydration around here.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Calabash,” the Negro waiter said, and delivered two whiskeys in short order.

There’s lots of busy people running around getting into mischief,” Harry said. “Mostly, their names don’t matter.”

“Mostly?”

“There’s a few names that do. Trick is knowing which ones are which.”

“How about a starting nine?” Sam said.

“Colonel Walker Taylor, George Rountree,” Harry said. “Start with those names. Remember them. Watch out for them. When you meet them, pay attention to what they say.”

“Right.”

“And then there’s John Allan Taylor—Colonel Walker Taylor’s brother. They don’t see eye to eye, those two. John Allan, he’s pure business. Walk, he goes his own way. Military man, the strenuous life, Teddy Roosevelt. Thick with Bill Kenan. What he believes in ain’t very complicated, and he believes in it all the way.”

“And what does John Allan believe in?”

“You saw him in the office—cold fish. Knows red ink from black, the bottom line. Believes in the monthly balance sheet and the sanctity of railroad bonds.”

Sam smiled—he had pegged him right. “Whatever you say. That the whole roster?”

“Not by a long shot. But I’ve told you too much in one lump already. You’ll get all the pieces by and by—when you need them.”

“Promise?”

“I don’t make promises. Man who makes promises, he’s already got his hand in your back pocket. But I do tend to repeat my wisdom from time to time—just in case you ain’t listening the first time.”

“I tend to listen good.”

“Fine, fine. But everybody gets distracted.”