Milo said, "Guess the Nobel comes in his sophomore year."

I said, "Three sports for him, only two for Tristram, Tristram serves on Model U.N. and mock trial, but Aidan's the captain of both teams."

"If Li'l Bro doesn't make National Merit, he's reduced to peasant status? Yeah, that would kick up the pressure."

"Merit scholarships are based on PSAT scores. Your percentile's high enough, you write a legible essay, you're in."

"Fake a score, get an award," he said. "Hell, maybe we're not just talking Tristram. For all we know Aidan's resume got pumped up the old-fashioned way."

"Cheating as a way of life."

"You read the papers." His pocket jumped as his phone played a too-fast Bach prelude. No more "Fur Elise." Did that mean something?

Moe Reed broke in. "Can't find a single link between Tristram Wydette and Garret Kenten, though Garret did graduate from Prep four years ago."

"He goes to college somewhere local?"

"There's no record he goes anywhere, the only thing that comes up under his name is a band. You'll love this: the Slackers. But there is a kid in the yearbook who's with Tristram in ten photos. Seven are from the baseball team, but there're also shots of the two of them horsing around on campus. To me they look like buds, Loo."

"What's this prince's name?"

"Quinn Glover. He doesn't have a record and neither does Tristram but your idea about parking was good because Tristram has piled up a lot of paper on or near Los Angeles Street, downtown. That's industrial but there used to be rave clubs in vacant buildings so maybe there're strip clubs."

"They bother enforcing parking there?"

"A while back there were complaints about drug deals so Central blocks off the area after six p.m. I guess once in a while they do enforce."

He read off the addresses on the citations. "One more thing, Loo. Quinn Glover's daddy is CEO of Trident Agriculture--that's the outfit Tristram's daddy sold his orchards to."

"Multigenerational ties that bind," said Milo. "Make up six-packs with each of these kids' faces. I'm gonna troll for a couple of pole dancers."

The block was grubby, dim, lined with warehouses and industrial buildings, a good half of them vacant. Loose garbage specked the sidewalk. The air smelled oddly of raw pork and rubber cement. Signs every ten yards warned No Parking 6 p.m. to 6 a.m. No one in sight but for a few homeless men lolling or driving carts. Some of the drivers managed a straight line.

The Hungry Lion Gentleman's Lounge occupied a windowless maroon cube. A stretch of dirt and broken asphalt running behind the buildings served as parking. The space behind the club was empty. Posted hours on the gunmetal door out front said the merriment wouldn't start for another two hours.