Rountree should have known—every time he had anything to do with the old fox, it cost him money. But he was trapped. “Fine.”

Three blocks away, in the dining room of the Cape Fear Club, which billed itself as the second-oldest men’s club in the South, the air was cool and the dim light was easy on the eyes. Overhead, electric ceiling fans rotated lazily, gently humming. Heavy drapes and stout doors kept out the street noise. Plush Oriental carpets soaked up the occasional clatter of sterling forks on Dresden plates. A dozen early luncheon patrons sat in twos and threes over linen tablecloths and silver place settings, talking business—attorneys, importers, aldermen, wholesalers. Members and their guests. White men who owned things. Negro waiters in spotless white jackets and black bow ties glided noiselessly among the tables, the kitchen, and the bar, delivering entrées and iced drinks on silver platters.

Men came and went seriously, without socializing—no visiting table to table. This was a place of business, of public privacy, each table a confidential enclave.

In a corner alcove, behind a hand-rubbed mahogany bar, a white-haired Negro in a hunter-green waistcoat poured liquor. Behind him shimmered racks of crystal glasses, decanters in staggered rows, a bar-length mirror framed in brass.

Waddell sipped Chardonnay—he would allow himself one glass to go with the stuffed shrimp. Rountree wondered if Waddell expected him to pick up the tab again. It was common knowledge that Waddell’s law practice was falling off. Lately, he’d been reduced to litigating petty squabbles over tradesmen’s contracts, minor probate matters, police court. The Colonel had rich tastes and a new, young wife, but he hadn’t gotten the dowry he’d expected from a deRosset, and his own resources were thin. Still, he’d always had a knack for getting other people to foot the bill—a born politician.

Holding it by the stem, Waddell carefully replaced his wineglass on the tablecloth and flicked his tongue across his lips. “Frankly, George, I’m a little put out. Apparently, the boys don’t want me to help.”

“Not at all,” Rountree said. “It’s early. It’s a very early stage of things.” He rubbed his bald head thoughtfully. He felt his baldness made him look distinguished. The silvering hair at his temples was razor-short.

“George.” Waddell smiled with his lips. “We are both gentlemen. We both understand the need for discretion.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Of course you didn’t.” The Colonel was still smiling.

“Nobody doubts your discretion.” But the truth was, Rountree’s associates didn’t want their plans trumpeted all over town, not just yet. This was the quiet phase of the campaign—a time to plan, to marshal resources, to gather into a common purpose men who could be trusted.

“I fought for this country once, and by God, I’ll do it again,” Waddell said. “That’s how strongly I feel about this matter.”