Beyond the tree, Donny could see the high-rises of the old Central Business District. Most of them were still standing, especially the older ones that had been built with more lasting bones, but you could also see the vegetation coming through the cracks and holes that brought the rain and sun. As he sat there in the long minutes waiting his turn for interrogation, one ear listening to the questions Old Boy was asking the other passengers and trying to think of clever responses while the other ear tuned in to the world outside the open window, he was struck again by the quiet of the city, even as they were at the edge of downtown. But it wasn’t silent. Now you could hear the sounds of people working, hammers and blocks and men yelling, building a new place that was something different from a city, without the aid of power tools. And just then Donny heard a screech in the sky, and when he looked up he saw a bald eagle soaring over the ruins of Downtown, a thick, shiny catfish in its talons. He watched it fly home, right into the open window on the top floor of the brutalist tower that had once been the US headquarters of Royal Petroleum.

The building where, the French magazine profile reported, the diligent scriveners of the Tributary were preparing their cases, mining forgotten sins and distributed profits from the well-maintained and regularly audited books and records of vanquished petrocapital.

“What’s your business inside the Circle?” said the old guy, now standing over Donny. He did not sound at all like Robert E. Lee, unless Robert E. Lee sounded like a guy from Brooklyn crossed with a guy from France.

Donny looked up at the guy. He did not look especially hostile, despite the gun.

Donny decided to try the honest approach. He reached into the side pocket of his suit coat, pulled out a business card, and handed it to the guy.

DONALD F. KIMOE

Attorney at Law

Washington • Houston • New Orleans

1–800-Freedom

“I’m headed to the courthouse,” said Donny. “The Tributary, on Camp Street.”

The courthouse was just a couple blocks away, right past the barricades that demarcated the true bounds of the Circle.

The man read Donny’s card and looked him over.

Donny tried his best smile. The trust-me smile, as Percy used to call it when they worked cases together, always reminding him it usually achieved just the opposite.

The man tucked Donny’s card into one of the bib pockets of his overalls, behind the brass and red plastic of a ten-gauge shell. Then he pumped the shotgun.

“Get up,” he said.

Donny complied, and stood in the aisle, both hands on the handle of his briefcase.

“I’ll take that,” said the man, grabbing the briefcase and setting it on the empty seat next to him.