Fresh ice was added, which Pat frowned at. The iceberg was impossibly massive. One hundred miles long, seven hundred fifty feet thick. The size of the country of Luxembourg. And Keith splashed out another double. Not skimpy though, which steadied Pat’s mood. Keith placed it on a coaster for Shiner beer and pushed it back at Pat. The mass of an iceberg is 90 percent underneath the water. If the iceberg makes it into open seas it will create a huge navigational hazard. It could take years to melt, calving into a chain of ice islands, each silently prowling the austral currents.

Kevin returned to the other end of the bar and huddled over his crossword. Shit, is his name Kevin? This is Doll’s, right? It’s definitely Doll’s, but Doll is dead and now this Irish lug nut is running it. Wherever he was, Pat was hot. The temperature outside had dropped down to something resembling fall, but Pat felt clammy. He took off his jacket, and there was the letter sticking out of the inside pocket. The letter Shapiro had handed him. Just one more drink, a few more measures, and he’d be settled in and could deal with the letter. Besides, you know what it says. You know the package. You drew up the package. Not yet though, a few more sips before he—Goddamn it. He was thinking about the letter now, and the glow was off. All that slow, deliberate drinking dashed on the rocks, and the song the whiskey played was now this mournful adagio, a somber horn against a dark void. All he wanted was a moment to regroup. But just like that, the taste of a good bottle had flattened into nothing but caraway and burn.

“Listen.” Les Shapiro’s right hand combed through a thinning astronaut buzz cut, then landed on the envelope on his desk. “I asked you to meet with me because I have some important news I need to tell you.”

Christ. Right out of the script from the manager’s handbook that Pat had helped create. Here it comes. Panic drew over him like a white sheet.

“This is tough . . .” Shapiro searched for eye contact with Pat, who rubbed his aching leg. “As you well know, we’re trimming across management, and, Pat, I fought to get you this.”

“Thanks.” Pat heard his mother’s voice in his reply. What’s done is done. There is no point to arguing this now. His shock hadn’t yet turned to disbelief or anger.

Shapiro tented his fingers, leaving a fat thumb on the envelope. “It’s so much more than industry standard, and with the cuts we’re facing in the New Year, it’s better to get this now than face a less certain future in terms of what the company can offer.”

Pat stayed silent.