Pompelli said, “Talk to me. Tell me. You think it’s too much maybe? All those years walking around traded for this? But you got to remember that hand all fucked up. Kids laughing at him. Calling him names. Men too, laughing. Not out loud but the way men do. That hand, it made him a little less. Not to him. Never to him. But how people that don’t know any better, how they see it. You got to hand it to Victor. Think about it. All those people: for them, yesterday is just like today. Today just like tomorrow. No difference. The only difference at all is Victor; he’ll know. He’ll know. And you. I guess you know. But that don’t matter. Does it? Come on. Talk to me.”

And Jamie, thinking at last, still silent, Let them. Whatever was to be extracted. All of it was theirs to take. Given over. All he wanted was Foster left be. It was all he asked. There was no answer. The world, the heavens, the universe were silent. As always.

Pompelli pushed back from his desk, leaned back, his forearms down on the arms of the chair, his hands hanging loose over the curled ends. Jamie thought he looked tired. But then everything was tired. Pompelli frowned at him. As if disappointed. And for that one fine moment Jamie wanted to please him. His worst moment. Then Pompelli focused again and his face grew smooth. He said, “So nothing? No little thing? A small signal of remorse? A message I can pass along? Consider it: he might be moved. He might feel contrition. He’s an old man. Anything is possible. He could pay for a mass.”

Jamie was silent.

“Fuck it.” Pompelli stood out of his chair. Crossed the room and pulled back one of the drapes and looked out into the reflection of himself in the glass. Let the green fabric go so it covered what he saw. Turned back into the room. No longer looking at Jamie. He said, “Get him out of here. Give him a ride.”

He could not stand. As if the messages his brain was sending were not being received. Nobody home down there, limbs sluggish, tired, running under water. The man Sammy did not touch him but the other two, Lester and the nameless one, helped him come upright out of the chair, their hands on him alert but relaxed, as if moving an animal. They turned him and steered him out of the room. His legs working now, one going before the other. They went out and down the steps and over the rough uneven yard to the big Dodge convertible where they put him into the backseat. Down the drive, parked by the side of the road, was the Carricks’ Ford. Jamie turned his head, spots going off behind his eyes, to face Sammy, still outside the car. He wet his lips, his tongue a thick rough thing. He said, “Save you the trouble. I’ll catch a ride with them.”