“Dan Malone, I can’t believe you tried to prank-call me. I might never speak to you again.”

“A little dramatic, no?”

“Now you have to take me to the Spring Cotillion.”

“What?”

“I’m serious.”

“That sounds serious.”

“Come on—it’s at Christ the King, and the girls have to ask the guys.”

“Cady . . .”

“You need a tuxedo. You have a tux, right?”

More giggling in the background and Dan was conflicted. This sounds like a bunch of Park Cities bullshit. He wanted to see her, but a cotillion was as far from fun as you could get.

“How about I take you out on a proper—”

“Don’t make me call your mother and turn you in for prank-calling me.”

“Blackmail. Wow, Miss Bloom.”

“So yes?”

“I’ve never heard of this dance, and I don’t have a tux.”

“You can rent one.”

“Listen, Cady, how about—”

“Anne and Pat Malone, 3741 Crown Shore Drive, 286-1525. Is that the number I should call?”

“Okay.” Maybe we can go to Whataburger after the cotillion.

“Okay what?”

“Okay, yes, I’ll take you.”

“Fine. So I guess goodbye then.” Like a good saleswoman, Cady had closed the deal and knew to get off the call quick.

“Bye.”

“Oh, and, Dan . . .”

“Yeah . . .”

“Gotcha back!”

Click.

Dan had fallen for it. Sticky just shook his head. Fallen hard.

April 8

[ APRIL 8 ]

That same Friday after Easter, Pat Malone limped toward the Dugout, the baseball-themed bar of Dovie’s restaurant. He had spent the morning jawing with some Jed Clampett at Addison Airport who was scaling up his operation of flying asshole oilmen around the Permian Basin. Not a bad idea, but Billy Bob Gulfstream didn’t grasp what an actuary was, and what he really needed was a charter concierge to cater to and coddle his J.R. Ewing jet set.

The morning crapped out, Pat was nowhere in this job hunt—Borman’s office had turned into a black box. Anne would give him grief for a restaurant bill, but Pat, in the logic of self-pity, deserved a lingering lunch. Dovie’s was actually built out from a ranch house Audie Murphy had bought but—typical of North Dallas real estate—never lived in. The staff was setting up for a rehearsal dinner that night, so the dining room was closed and lunch served in the Dugout. The host offered Pat any table, so he made for a booth in the back, ordered a High Life, and unfolded the Times Herald want ads. Taking his first gulp off the beer mug, Pat realized that his booth was decorated with a picture of Don Larsen being tree-climbed by Yogi Bear after his perfect game.

Goddamn Yankees.