He looked up Pennsylvania Avenue toward the Capitol Building. He didn’t want to drink at home today. Somehow it felt disrespectful to Billy to drink anywhere else on the House side, so he crossed Pennsylvania Avenue and walked north to Massachusetts Avenue.

Everything was sunnier on the Senate side. The restaurants were more sophisticated. The bodegas were called groceries, and had aisles wide enough for two people. The bagel place made their bagels in a brick oven, rather than his usual, a serve-yourself in Saran wrap with lumped cream cheese already inside. Why did he live the way he did? It was only a few more blocks to walk to these places. He should come up here more often, he told himself, change his habits. He’d do it tomorrow, he decided, order himself a cappuccino and a poppy seed bagel warm out of the oven.

He chose a bar in the middle of the block with a brick patio out front that was as big as the entire Pigeon. In the summers, the patio filled with loud congressional staffers holding chardonnay and vodka tonics in plastic cups. “One of them goddamn fern bars,” Billy called it. Sebastian’s was bright inside with an exposed brick wall and little glass flower vases on the tables. It was early enough that only one table was occupied, five young men in college sweatshirts and designer jeans drinking craft beer and watching the game. Klay took a seat at the bar. The bartender, older than Klay had expected for this place, set a napkin in front of him and placed a glass of iced water on top of it. “What can I get you?”

“Booker’s. Neat,” Klay said.

The bartender shook his head. “Sorry. No Booker’s. Kids all drink this.” He took down a bottle of Bulleit bourbon.

“I’ll have a beer,” Klay said. He checked the tap handles. “Guinness.”

It was in motion now. He had his role to play in Barrow’s plan and then he would be free.

The bartender poured the stout. It arrived in front of Klay with a little shamrock design in the foam. Klay took a sip and looked up at the flat-screen television maybe four times the size of the one at the Pigeon. All of the television’s colors were what they were supposed to be, too.

“Would you like some pita chips?” the bartender asked, setting a basket in front of him, along with a dish of hummus.

Klay chuckled.

“What’s funny?”

He reached for a chip. “I’m usually over at the Gray Pigeon. Billy’s not much for snacks.”

The bartender’s face fell. “It’s a crying shame,” he said.

Klay got a sick feeling. “What is?”

“You don’t know?” The older man picked up the remote and began flipping channels. “It’s all over the news.”

“Hey!” The Hill rats looked up from their nachos. “The game!” they said. “Turn it back!”