“Was that an attempt at insult?”

“Apparently not a successful one. Gloria, I have three million dollars in the bank. Would you like it?”

“I’m sure I would.”

“Do you want it?”

“Who would not?”

“May I offer it to you?”

“That, of course, is up to you.”

At the door of my room, I turned to face her. “I will give you all of my money if you help me get Eigen away from Sill.”

“No.”

“I will give you the money if you tell me how I can get her away from him,” I said. “Just information. That’s it.”

“I suggest you get a gun and shoot him,” she said. She might have smiled, it was hard to tell. It was clear I was getting nowhere. “Are you going to lock me in here?”

“No.”

“Are you going to stand outside my door?”

“Yes.”

I stepped inside and closed the door myself. I walked to the window and looked at the horses. Even if I did get out of my room undetected, what could or would I do? If I could get out, how would I help Eigen? I didn’t know how to do anything. It occurred to me that that might have been the story of my life. Whether it was or not, I believed that it didn’t have to be, adhering, as I did, to the notion that contingency is necessary.

I lay on the bed and tried to dream and conjure a conversation with Trigo. My mind began to race and play tricks. Every effort to conjure my friend resulted in a different breed. Trigo as a Labrador retriever tried to get me to taste his food and got angry when I wouldn’t. Trigo would have said, Suit yourself. Trigo as a Rottweiler asked me if I knew the difference between a rabbit and a hare. When I said I didn’t, he said neither did he. As a Chihuahua he refused to speak at all. As a standard poodle, he wouldn’t shut up, speaking in German, reminding me constantly that he was a hunting dog. Finally there was no dog, but ninety-two-year-old Leon Coltrane.

“I want you to know,” Coltrane said, “that I have a good ten years left and so I will outlive Signifier. Yes, I changed his name. I hope you don’t mind.”

“I don’t,” I said.

“You’re in quite the predicament.”

I nodded.

“Where I grew up we’d say you were fucked. Pardon my French.” He was dressed as a chef, but his hat was hard like a helmet. “Do you have a plan? Not that a plan is the best thing to have always.”

“Do you mean I should just wing it?”

“Hope ain’t no kind of strategy. You need to give them what they want. You need to give them everything they want. You need to let them believe that you don’t want them to have what they want.”

“You’re saying I should give them nothing?”

“As much of it as you can get.”