“Let me help. I have a plan. A better plan than whatever you have. Listen.”

Donny told him his plan. To his surprise, it sounded pretty good. Better than when he had thought it up an hour before.

“How can you do that?” said Lou. “Those are your clients you would be going up against.”

“It won’t be the first time.”

Lou grunted in agreement.

“It’s not a conflict,” Donny continued. “Not technically. There’s nothing they can do to stop me. Trust me.”

He could almost hear Lou thinking. There were voices in the background. One calling Lou’s name.

“Come on,” said Donny. “It can’t hurt. And I’m pretty sure I can pull it off.”

“It’s tempting, Donny. Even if it’s very unorthodox, and a little wacked. The thing is, I’m not calling the shots on this one.”

“What do you mean? It’s your kid.”

“Yeah, but it’s not my money.”

“It’s her money.”

“It’s more complicated than that. There’s another guy you’ll need to talk to. And he may be harder to convince than me.”

“Who’s that?”

Lou told him.

“I know him,” said Donny. “We go way back.”

“Okay, then maybe it will work.”

“Maybe,” said Donny, more convincingly than he actually believed.

13

As he rode in the self-driving cab headed to the meeting Lou had set up, Donny watched the news feed on the seatback. It wasn’t news, really. Just a curated freak show of videos they ran to try to hold your attention until the next ad. The newly wedded actors Newton Towns and Lauren Stern showing the crossbred giant vegetables they were growing in the urban farm they started at an old dump site, Lauren talking about what the crumbling old concrete does for the soil, how the pill bugs eat the hard metals right out. Some guys walking into a clearing in the Siberian forest, claiming they have found a landing site of ancient aliens. And a new sighting of Donny’s most famous—and most hated—client.

It was a blown-up photo of a guy on the deck of a yacht. He was with two topless women and one topless dude, holding instruments the overdub said were the assault rifles of bodyguards, but could just as easily have been fishing gear. The image was too grainy to tell, but at just enough resolution for you to see it kind of looked like it could be him, there in the Mediterranean sun off the coast of Ibiza.

“Hey, driver,” said Donny.

“Yes, sir,” said the voice of the bot. It was a perfectly pitched androgyne, with just a hint of an English accent to make it sound classier. Donny preferred it when they had German accents, which made the cars feel safer. “How can I help you?”

“Where is the president of the United States?”