I looked up and was surprised to be able to see the man and his face. If he had looked more ordinary, he would have been invisible. If it was at all possible for a suit, ill-fitting or otherwise, to be colorless, this was it. “I know where I am,” I said.

“Do you?”

“As a matter of fact. I’m here with you. I do want to know what’s been done with my dog.”

“Do you, now?”

“And my student. My student was with me. Where is Sam?”

“Don’t you want to know why you’re here?” the man asked.

“What exactly do you want me to want to know? Again, my student?”

“We’ll get to that,” the man said. “My name is Bill Clinton.”

I looked at him, head tilted.

“Not that Bill Clinton.” He had seen my questioning expression before. “I work for a government agency, but I can’t tell you which one.”

“It’s top secret,” I guessed.

“Yessireebob.”

“FBI?”

“Nope. That’s not secret.”

“CIA?”

“Nope.”

“NSA?”

“Nope.”

“DOD?”

“Nope.”

“DEA?”

“Nope.”

“EPA, PTA, NRA, CNN?”

“You’ll never get it,” Clinton said.

“I’ve only started. Given there are twenty-six letters in the alphabet and that there is no reason for me to assume that your agency has three initials, but could have one, two, three of twenty-six, then I have thirty-seven million more guesses coming to me. So, let’s start again. A?”

“Shut up!” he barked. “You’re a wisenheimer.”

“Where is my dog?”

“In due time.” Clinton tossed a four-by-six-inch black-and-white photograph onto the table in front of me. “Do you know this man?”

“I have seen this man.”

“I asked you if you know him.”

“I know his name,” I said.

“Who is he?”

“You might call him my patron, my benefactor, perhaps even my employer. My sugar daddy. I heard that used in a movie once. Though I don’t know what sugar has to do with anything.”

“I’ll tell you what sugar has to do with anything. He gave you a check for two and a half million smackers. That’s a lot of cabbage.”

I was taken with his language. “More like Boston lettuce, in that it was three million, but go on,” I said. “Bok choy? Romaine.”

“A funny guy. What was that money for?”

“Nothing, if you must know.” I told the truth.

“Listen, you’re dealing with the federal government here. I want to know what that money is payment for.”

“I told you. Nothing.”

“What’s his name? The man in the photograph.”

“You apparently know his name,” I said. “Where’s my dog?”

“Do you know where John Sill is now?”

“Who?”

“John Milton Bradley Sill. The man who gave you the moolah, the do-re-mi. The gent in the pic.”

I couldn’t keep from smiling.

“You find this amusing.” It was a statement and I agreed with it, and as this was an assertion I felt no need to respond.

“Well, do you?”

“Where is my dog?”

“Hot in here, isn’t it. You must be feeling pretty thirsty right about now. I bet you could go for a little something to wet your whistle. Ice water, a nice icy soda pop, a nice tall glass of frigid sweet tea?”