“The coals are just about ready,” the old man beamed. “We wasn’t going to wait more than five minutes longer for you, doll, but now I can put the steaks on.”

I don’t much like Spumante. While Mr. Contreras took the steaks—a gift from Uncle Peter—out to the grill, I poured my glass down the sink and went upstairs for whisky. I looked wistfully at my bathtub, but settled for a quick shower. With clean hair and clothes and a glass of Johnnie Walker, I felt, if not revived, at least strong enough to cope with the outgoing personalities on the first floor.

They were all out back now, the dogs sitting at attention around the grill in case one of the steaks dropped to the ground. Petra’s hearty laugh floated up the back stairs to me. I could hear Jake Thibaut playing his bass next door. It would have been pleasant just to sit on the steps, listening to the music, drinking my whisky, but I let duty be my guide and went down to the garden.

I asked Petra about her promotion. “Does this mean you’re working directly for Brian Krumas now?”

“Don’t I wish! Although, maybe I don’t. There’s so much responsibility at the high levels of the campaign, making sure all the facts are right, the speeches are just so, that Brian knows who’s saying what about him and what he needs to think about. I’m happy to be a worker bee, although Mr. Strangwell—he’s, like, Brian’s most important adviser—he met with me personally. He wants me to brief him about the same stuff I tell my real boss.”

“That sounds like a serious jump up the ladder,” I said. “How does your real boss feel about it?”

“Oh, Tania’s used to people moving around in the operation. She’s totally cool. I wish you’d met her at the fundraiser, but she was pretty much spending the whole night with national media types.”

“What’s Strangwell like?” I’d never met him, but you can’t operate on even the fringes of Chicago politics without knowing about him. If he was advising Brian Krumas personally, it meant the national party might well be grooming Brian for a post-Barack Obama presidential run.

Petra gave an exaggerated shudder. “He’s kind of scary, he’s so serious. Everyone else in the campaign, we’re all young and we joke around, it’s how we get the job done, but he’s Mr. Serious. In my pod, they all call him the Chicago Strangler. And when he looks at you and tells you he wants something done, you feel like, gosh, better drop everything and do this now. And, even then, you’re afraid it won’t be good enough.”

“What does he have you doing, then?”