“That’s what our internal data indicates. For a long time, no one did anything about it. We let the wound fester, and we all share some blame for that. My administration’s made the Tomahawk a top priority.”

“The mayor campaigned on a policy of rejuvenation,” Watt told me.

“It begins with initiatives like Common Dreams,” said Vance. “But in ten years, I envision a whole neighborhood reclaimed and revitalized. The Tomahawk is actually one of Arcade’s most historic districts. You can quote me on that. Its heritage is just waiting, right beneath the surface.”

—

A waiter rang a bell, and everybody streamed from the Lookout Room to the drive outside, where a row of black limousines awaited. I saw Dr. Kriss with a few military men and someone I recognized as Kenneth Sample, the CEO of Rubicon. They got into one of the limos, I piled into another, and in one long caravan we crawled toward downtown Arcade.

Four men rode with me, three of them bunched together on the sofa along the side, sharing a bottle of wine. They introduced themselves as investors from Dallas and I let them know I was a journalist writing about Rubicon.

“If I were you,” one of them said, “I wouldn’t be writing about this company.”

“No?”

“I’d be buying stock.”

The Texans laughed and splashed some wine as the limo took a turn.

I said, “I take it you own a piece of Rubicon?”

“Kenny brought me in at first offering.”

“Can I ask what you paid?”

“Well, darling, you can ask anything you like.”

“What did you pay?”

The Texan kept his eyes on me as he tipped his head back, finished his glass, and exhaled with satisfaction. Then he broke into laughter.

In the corner opposite me, the fourth man gave a snort. The Texan noticed, the smile draining from his face. “There a problem over there?”

The man had lit a cigarette and was staring out the window.

“Hey, you.”

The man turned to the Texan, blinking. “Yes?”

“There a problem?”

“How could there be a problem?”

Their eyes locked briefly, then the Texan muttered something and refilled his wine.

I slid over so I was facing the man in the corner. He was about my age, with gold-rimmed glasses and a closely tailored suit. He noticed me watching him, but kept his pale-gray eyes focused out the window, on the city scrolling backwards.

“Are you an investor as well?” I asked.

“I’d prefer not to speak to a journalist, thank you.”

“Off the record?”

I thought I detected a French accent.

He glanced at the Texans, who were talking amongst themselves. One of them clamped a bottle between his knees and pulled out the cork with a jocund pop.

“I represent others’ interests,” said the man.

“Others such as?”

“That wouldn’t be for me to say.”

“In France?”