Nick and T.J. glanced at Peter, then walked out, the Nickster making a big deal out of coming very close to me. When they were gone, Peter slid off the desk, dug out his wallet, took out a small color snapshot, and handed it to me. It was creased cleanly once, and yellowed the way old photos are yellowed when they have lain untouched between papers in a box for many years. It was Peter. Much younger and even thinner, with long frizzy hair and a dark maroon T-shirt that said USC FILM. He was sitting on an ugly cloth couch in a plain student’s apartment and he was holding a tiny baby. Neither Peter nor the baby looked happy. He said, “I’ve got an ex-wife and a son. The last time I saw my son, he was maybe a year old. His name is Toby. We named him Toby after Toby Tyler, or, Ten Weeks with the Circus. He’s gotta be about twelve now, but I don’t know if he’s dead or if he’s alive or if he’s a crip in a ward somewhere. I don’t know if he likes pizza. I don’t know if he likes Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. You see?”

I nodded. “Your ex-wife never came to you for child support?”

“No.”

“Or alimony?”

He spread his hands. “For all I know she’s on the moon.”

I said, “Peter, you ever think maybe the woman doesn’t want to be found?”

He stared at me.

“It’s been ten years and you don’t exactly lead a low-profile life. If she wanted to find you, she could’ve. I’ve done jobs like this before, and what happens is that everyone ends up wishing well enough had been left alone. The kids end up confused and scared and the parents end up fighting the old fights. You see?”

Peter took a deep breath and shook his head and looked around the office. With T.J. and the Nickster and Donnie Brewster gone, the office felt empty and he looked alone. He said, “I’m worth, what? Maybe two hundred million, something like that? If I’ve got a kid, part of that’s his, right?” Trying to convince me. “What if he needs a car? What if he can’t afford college?”

I said, “You want to be a father.”

He took back the snapshot of the very much younger Peter Alan Nelsen and his baby son. Toby. Toby Tyler and the circus. “Unless the kid’s dead, I’m a father whether I want to be or not. That oughta mean something, right?”

I said, “Yes. It should.”

“So Karen’s mad. So I schmucked out back then and I blew it. Does that mean that I have to pay for it the rest of my life?”

“No.”