When the door opened, Lett was expecting Frankie. Charlie Selfer came to him. Selfer was alone. He stepped inside the cell and then checked the corridor. He was back to wearing summer khaki without insignia, but it didn’t fit as if tailored anymore. A button in the center of his shirt front was missing, and one sleeve was partly rolled up while the other wasn’t and it hung there flapping unbuttoned at the cuff. His hair fell in his eyes; dry, no tonic—a sight new to Lett, and Selfer kept pushing it away as if it were a fly buzzing around him.

Lett was sitting on the floor with his back slumped against the wall. He said nothing. What could he say? He wouldn’t bother standing until Selfer was forced to make him.

“Good Lord,” Selfer muttered. He had bags under his eyes so distended they looked ready to burst. He’d lost weight, too, his trousers cinched up under his web belt, his cheeks hollow. He was panting a little, and Lett suspected he’d jogged all the way here in a panicked lather. An unknowing stranger might have mistaken Selfer for an escaping cellmate.

From his pocket Selfer produced a bread roll, wrapped in a white napkin, still warm.

“You better devour that, while you can.”

Lett nodded. He unwrapped the napkin. The roll had fresh butter and salami inside. Glorious.

“Well? Eat.”

He sunk his teeth in, inhaling it, and finished off the roll.

Then Lett noticed Selfer wore the strangest thing—he had a holster on his belt, and it held a Colt pistol. Lett couldn’t remember seeing the man wear a gun, not even during the war.

“I can show you how to use that,” Lett said.

“That’s not funny.”

“I’m not trying to be.”

“I don’t have time, Lett. I need to think . . .”

Selfer was grousing like a man twice his age. Yet Lett noticed a softness in his eye. And Lett wondered if the man had children, a boy he once put to bed and watched like this before turning the lights off. A wife? He always assumed not. Now he wasn’t so sure.

He can go right to hell with me, Lett reminded himself. Selfer was the reason he was here. It all started with him.

“Why do I get the feeling,” Lett said, “that you’re not supposed to be down here?”

“Shhh.” Selfer listened again.

“Let’s hope they don’t pass by for a while,” Lett said.

“I spotted them going off on a break.” Selfer crouched next to Lett. “Listen. I’ve been doing some figuring. I still do have some wits left in my noodle, I can tell you, and I’m using them. Now, you’re going to think I’m half-cocked if not a little cuckoo, but . . .” Selfer spoke lower. “Have you ever heard of something called the Business Plot?”

“I think so,” Lett said.