Pat grinned like an idiot at this—How has no one shot this guy yet?—and then scanned the house. Anne was working on some sort of barbecue chicken in the kitchen. Dan sat quietly on the far chair in the living room, chewing through potato chips and French onion dip while keeping Agent Hurley company. Jack took off his jacket and returned to sprawling over the good sofa. Built like an ox, Jack had played right tackle for Frank Leahy at South Bend, which he reminded people of every five goddamn minutes.

“Paddy, I haven’t been down this way since we came to whip those boys at Southern Methodist. Played them at the Cotton Bowl. Had to clear the cattle off the field before the game.” Jack slapped at Dan’s knee to punctuate his corniness.

“Nice to see you, Jackie,” Pat said. “You good on drinks?”

Jack rattled his ice. “I won’t lie: this could use a sequel. Look how big your son has gotten—Danny boy, where are you going to go to college?”

Dan shrugged. “Notre Dame, I guess.”

“There you go! Good answer, Dan the man.” Jack then rolled up his sleeve to show Dan his tattoo of Clashmore Mike, the Irish terrier that had been the ND mascot before the leprechaun.

Annoyed, Pat put down his briefcase in the hall and shuffled toward the alcohol. “He’s still just a sophomore.”

As Jack made the terrier bark on his twitching forearm, Dan blurted, “I also like Princeton.”

Jack fell back as if concussed. “That Protestant school? Jesus, Patrick—talk to your boy.”

“Stop, Jackie,” Anne called out from the kitchen. “Nothing wrong with the Ivy League.”

“I work for Princeton grads, Annie. It’s a first-class school, full of goo-goos who have no clue what’s going on out there.”

“Well it was good enough for Einstein . . . ,” Dan offered.

“Yeah, Jack.” Pat cracked an ice tray over two cocktail glasses. “And Bill Bradley!”

“I can tell I’ve lost you people to the heathens out here.” Jackie rolled away Clashmore Mike but left his cuff undone. “Cheers, Paddy,” he said, accepting the fresh Manhattan Pat handed him. “The house looks good.”

Even Jack’s benign compliments sounded like slights to Pat as he returned to sitting on the uncomfortable living room furniture.

“What brings you to town?”

Jack’s eyes went wide like Sergeant Schultz’s, and he replied, “I vill tell you nothing!” Followed by a big honking laugh, like a seal or a walrus. Jesus. “Seriously, I’m part of a task force. These S & Ls, Paddy . . .”

“We got out a year ago.”

“Good. Stay away from it. Let me tell you, after today with the market, they’re all going belly-up. Bunch of crooks pretending to be George Bailey.”