Empty. Like his list of ideas on how to take down Ras Botha. That’s what he should have been focused on. Klay raised two fingers off his glass signaling Billy to do as he pleased. Billy looked up at the television, a box the size of a small refrigerator bolted to the ceiling, and flipped channels with a remote.

The Gray Pigeon was what used to be called a reporter’s bar, a Pennsylvania Avenue watering hole where veteran journalists and their powerful subjects could mingle after work and off the record. Photos in black metal frames memorialized the Pigeon’s glory days: David Halberstam at his word processor. Sy Hersh on the telephone. Molly Ivins sporting John Tower’s Stetson. Helen Thomas wagging a finger at Marlin Fitzwater. Even Washington Star columnist Mary “Fawn not upon the great” McGrory had allowed her photo to be taken at the Pigeon, albeit walking out of the place. Klay avoided sitting across from a framed note, typed on FBI stationery, which hung behind the bar. The note read, “Jack Anderson: Lower than the regurgitated filth of vultures.—J. Edgar Hoover.” Both Hoover and Anderson had autographed the yellowing note in ink that was now faded.

The Gray Pigeon had faded, too. The internet, Craigslist, and—Billy’s pet theory—Jim Fixx’s Complete Book of Running—had each taken a turn knocking the wind out of smoke-filled evenings downing dry martinis and pickled eggs. In a corner sat Billy’s one effort to keep up with the times: a piña colada machine that looped a warm mint-green liquid.

“It’s just the march on yet,” Billy said, backing away from the television set. “Then they got the tailgate. Kickoff’s at three.” He set the remote down next to the cash register and refilled Klay’s ice water. “What’s next on your agenda?”

“Wait and see,” Klay said.

Billy eyed Klay for a moment. “Emphasis on ‘wait’?”

“You got it.” Klay glanced at his phone again.

He was ready for a new assignment. He’d told Porfle, but Porfle said he didn’t have anything for him. He could have been wrong, but Porfle sounded like he didn’t want to have anything for him. The only good news from all this delay was that physically he was much improved. His sling was gone. His range of motion had returned. Nerves in his right hand tingled from time to time, but his doctor said that would resolve.

Klay picked up his phone and texted Eady. “Anything?” He held the phone in his palm for a moment, willing a response to appear, then set it down on the bar, facedown.

He nodded at Billy’s sweatshirt. “How’s your grandson doing?”

“Good,” Billy said. “Carl’s doing real good. They got him on the Shiloh.”

“Sounds exciting,” Klay said.

“Sure,” Billy said. “It all sounds exciting.”