Klay felt a reasonable hump of muscle between Eady’s thumb and index finger, and solid musculature among his metacarpals. The creping in the skin on the back of Eady’s hand was normal, too. Things must have been going well with his treatments, Klay thought. Or maybe it was still early. He’d never asked Eady what form of cancer he had or its stage. If he didn’t hear the details tonight, he promised himself he would call Ruth later in the week.

The stranger’s grip, by contrast, was firm and calloused, the hand of someone who did more than he appeared to do.

“Have a seat, son,” the stranger said. Klay didn’t like it. He didn’t like sitting with his back to the room, and he didn’t like this stranger. Most unsettling of all, he didn’t know why. His father used to have a saying for people who rubbed him the wrong way, “I don’t like that guy. I got to get to know him better.” Klay sat down.

“Sir?” Arno said to Klay.

“Wonder what he’ll have,” the stranger said.

“Sorry,” Klay said. “Who are you?”

The man raised a glass to his lips, chuckling, and sipped his drink.

Eady put a hand on Klay’s sleeve. “We’ll get to that in a minute, Tom.” He arched an eyebrow. Arno was waiting.

“I’ll have a bourbon.”

“Vance and I are sampling a fine Japanese single malt,” the stranger said.

“Bourbon works for me,” Klay said. “Booker’s if you have it.”

The stranger looked at Klay over the rim of his glass. “This Yamazaki’s worth twice that Kentucky mash, and I’m footing the bill.”

“Double then,” Klay said.

Arno nodded.

Klay waited.

It was nearly midnight. They were the club’s only guests. The room’s silence was broken only by the sound of scratching clocks. There were clocks throughout the club, on walls, on top of tables and shelves. More than one corner held a grandfather clock. Eady’s fingers strummed the armrest of his leather wingback chair. The stranger leaned forward, took two olives from a dish, and popped them into his mouth. Wedding ring, single-button cuffs, Bulova watch. He fished the pits from his mouth and added them to a small pile on a cocktail napkin. Agency, Klay concluded.

“Ah! Here we are,” the stranger said, accepting two scotches and Klay’s bourbon from a silver tray Arno held.

“Thank you, Arno,” Eady said. “We’ll be about an hour.”

The guest shook his head. “Less,” he said, and tossed a cocktail stick onto Arno’s tray.

Less? Nothing took less to say than what Klay wanted to hear: “It’s over.” “We’re done.” Klay looked the man over. Maybe he should get to know this guy better after all.

Arno scooped up the olive pits with a napkin. “Yes, Mr. Eady.”