I asked him what he was reading, but he started telling me about his public-relations business. Dave worked for himself. He said he’d acquired a specialization, and that he was putting together “a multimedia attack” for the client.

“Wow,” I said. “Sounds big. How’s it going?”

“It’s going good.”

“Well, hooray. What else are you working on?”

“I don’t have time for anything but this right now.”

“Uh-huh,” I said. He nodded. I said, “I’m sure that’ll change.” I gave him the thumbs-up.

He shook his head. “This is my only client.”

“Oh.”

“No, Vin—you’re not getting it. I dumped my other clients. I just work for these guys now.”

“I see. Is that the way to do it?”

“Yeah, it’s the way to do it. How the hell should I know?” He was pissed. He said, “I already told you on the phone.”

He explained that the client’s company was basically four businesses: waste management, construction, a muffler-and-shock-absorber chain, and an investment company that oversaw everything. He’d done freelance stuff for them through a bigger agency, and then at a meeting one day they asked if he would do PR for their company full-time. “I do everything for them—buy all the media, deal with the ad agency. A family owns it. An Italian guy and his brother-in-law run everything. Real sullen assholes.”

“Really,” I said. “What—no cement company?”

“Ha. Don’t say that too loud. They probably have this place bugged.” He laughed.

“I know. Christ, you’re working for the Mafia.”

He wiped his eyes with the palm of his hand and said, “But look—they’re gonna make us a pool,” pointing with the telephone.

I looked at the area set aside for the pool. It’s hard to tell how something will be when it’s finished just by looking at the ground. It would catch a lot of shade from the house. “Wait a second,” I said. “Where’s your sewer line? Did you get a permit for this?”

“We don’t need a permit.”

“Sure you do. You have to have a building permit.”

“Not with these guys.”

“But wait a minute—that’s crazy.”

“No, it’s not.”

“What’s going on? You have to have a permit. You have to declare all this.”

“Look at Mr. Painfree here, giving me advice.”

“I’m not giving you advice,” I said. “Stop and think about it for a second, though. You want to put yourself in that kind of position? You’re leaving yourself vulnerable.”

Dave yanked his glasses off, accidentally bending them at the nosepiece. He said, “Look who’s talking, fucknob. You’re going to offer me advice? Your whole life is fucked up. Your last girlfriend was a bed wetter.”

“Only when she got drunk.”

“Well, whatever. It’s great getting advice from you, man.”