“So who do you really have to beat, if Bridwell doesn’t worry you?”

“Dan Baird.”

Even I had heard of Dan Baird. He was a lot like Arch, almost a doppelgänger from a different generation. When he’d gotten his start, he was young, handsome, and charismatic, a political outsider, scion of an old Nashville dynasty. His family had owned a home on the Boulevard for nearly a century. Like Arch, his inherited wealth came from the insurance business. He’d spent fifteen years as a surgeon before running for Congress in Chattanooga. He’d then served three terms before stepping down to start a charitable foundation that sent doctors and nurses to combat AIDS in sub-Saharan Africa.

“I don’t know, Arch,” I said. “That guy’s friends with Bono.”

“Being friends with Bono won’t win you too many votes outside Davidson County,” Arch said.

“What does Vanessa think?” I asked.

“You’re the first person I’ve told besides Averett,” he said.

“Why me?”

“I want your opinion. What does your gut tell you?”

“My gut tells me you’ve already made up your mind.”

“I won’t get a better chance for a long, long time,” he said. “What do you think?”

“Can I smoke in here?”

“Follow me,” he said. “I know a good place.”

Arch led me to an inconspicuous door in the corner of the hallway outside his office, which opened to a dark stairwell leading up to the roof. I lit up. Arch gazed out toward the Cumberland.

“Master of all he surveys,” I said.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I’ll draw up another logo, if that’s what you have in mind.”

“I don’t need a logo,” he said. “I need a body man.”

“I don’t follow.”

“A body man. Like an assistant, only you’re not typing up letters, you’re just hanging with me, helping me out.”

“Like your shadow.”

“More like my conscience.”

“I’m busy,” I said.

“I need you,” Arch said.

“I’ve got work set up for the next three months.”

“Oh, come off it. Here’s your chance to do something more meaningful than painting pictures.”

I tossed my cigarette onto the ground and stamped it out.

“Fuck you, Arch,” I said.

“That came out wrong,” he said.

“No, it didn’t,” I said. “And let me tell you something. I don’t really care about making a difference in the world. In my experience, people who try to make a difference just make things worse. I just want to paint and be left alone.”

“And play house with my wife.”

I glanced up at him. His expression betrayed no emotion. I wondered if this was his true self or the public one he’d cultivated over the years to the point of being able to become whoever he needed to be in the moment to get what he wanted from people.