But that week was a reprieve. He didn’t show up. A colleague told me he was on vacation, another said his mother was ill. I had lunch with Gordon Stone, and he said something about Lane’s mother as well, though he sort of merged the stories, saying the two of them had taken a trip together.

“Where to?”

“Somewhere between coasts.”

We were eating at one of Gordon’s preferred spots, an Italian restaurant that served me one large ravioli stuffed with goose liver. I missed the Donut Shop. We’d had to pass it on our way here, and it was already a ghastly boutique called Full Throttle that sold motorcycle-themed clothing.

“Has anyone told you about Mort’s little explosion?” Gordon asked.

“No, what happened?”

“The details remain obscure,” he said, slicing grilled branzino. “All we know for sure is that one of the investors marched into Mort’s office, demanding changes to a story.”

“Which investor?”

“I can’t keep them straight, I’m sorry. I’d never actually seen one before. You know, I always pictured them dressed up like robber barons, but the man was in sneakers and jeans. Well, he was terrifically upset, and Mort didn’t react gracefully to his so-called editorial suggestions. We were all frozen in our seats as we listened to the shouts, like muted bombs in the room next door. Then the investor stormed out of the office, Mort calling after him, ‘Don’t ever come in like that again, you son of a bitch!’ Or was it ‘bastard’? None of us had ever seen him so angry. He was volcanic.”

I broke the bread and mopped up the brown butter that had been spooned over the pasta.

“Any idea what set the investor off?”

“It’s too byzantine for summary,” Gordon said, “but Ben’s been reporting on some of the new lobbyists that have been appearing in Washington since the attacks. He indulged, a little too freely in my view, in that sort of paranoid conjecture about Halliburton and Iraqi oil fields and so forth. Clearly the investor’s got skin in the game somewhere.”

“Do you think he’ll pull out his money?”

“I suppose it depends on whether he’s idealistic about the fourth estate. Most of these millionaire sorts rather enjoy the idea of bankrolling journalism, as long as it’s vanquishing their enemies. Once the lens gets turned on them, they suddenly have a very different philosophy. Regardless, the check has been cashed, so we’re safe until the end of the year. But I must admit, Mort has looked a tad remorseful.”

—

When Gordon and I got back to the Bystander, Mort was out on the floor with all the other writers. Some were grouped around a table and some hung back, watching over cubicle walls.

The intern saw me and called, “She’s here.”

“Whitney.” Mort motioned for me to hurry over.