Then Anderson thanked them for “opening up their home” before going to commercial.

Chick stared at the blank screen for a few seconds.

“What the hell was that?”

Myron didn’t reply.

“What’s going on, Myron? Why won’t they help us?”

“I don’t know that they can.”

“You too? You’re buying this?”

“I don’t even know what they’re selling, Chick.”

“I told you I went to my lawyers today, right?”

“Right.”

“So I asked them what we could do. You know. To make the kid talk.”

“What did they suggest?”

“Nothing! They say there’s nothing to be done. Can you believe that? Patrick doesn’t have to say a damn thing. You can’t compel him to tell you. Even if he knows something crucial. Hell, even if he knows where Rhys is right now. It’s nuts.”

Chick signaled to the bartender, who poured him some Johnnie Walker Black. The bartender looked over at Myron. Myron shook his head. Too early in the day.

When Chick got his drink, he huddled around it as though it were a fire providing warmth. “I appreciate your help here,” he said, a little calmer now. “Win, well, I know Win doesn’t like me. No surprise really. We are from two different worlds. Plus he thinks Brooke walks on water. No one would be good enough for her, you know?”

Myron nodded, just because he wanted him to keep talking.

“But Brooke and me, we have a solid marriage. It’s had its problems, sure. Like any other. But we love each other.”

“Those problems,” Myron said, spotting the opening. There was no reason to wait any longer. “Was Nancy Moore one of them?”

Chick had been bringing the whiskey to his lips. He hesitated, debating whether he should reply first or take a sip. He chose the sip. He placed the drink back on the bar and turned to Myron.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Myron just stared at him. He tried to wait it out.

“Well?” Chick said.

“I know about the texts.”

“Ah.” Chick rose, took off his suit jacket, hung it neatly over the back of the barstool. He sat back down and fiddled with the gold cuff link on his left wrist. “And how do you know about the texts?”

“Does it matter?”

“Not really,” Chick said, shrugging it away too casually. “They’re nothing.”

Myron tried to stare him down again.

Chick was trying to sound nonchalant, but it wasn’t holding. “Does Win know?”

“Not yet.”

“But you’ll tell him?”

“Yes,” Myron said.

“Even if I ask you not to?”

“Even if.”

Chick shook his head. “You don’t get my life.”

Myron said nothing.

“The rest of them, they got everything handed to them. I worked. I scraped. I got nothing easy. News flash, Myron”—he leaned and cupped his hand around his mouth—“the game is rigged for the rich. It ain’t a level playing field. I started with nothing. My father owned a barbershop in the Bronx. You want to get up there with them? You need to cheat a little.”