Mackey stands abruptly and drifts back into watchful orbit around his candidate. The conversation couldn’t have gone any worse if I’d set out to make him hate my guts. This is the man upon whose mercy I advised my father to throw himself?

I stand and walk into the hallway, half looking for Dad and half aiming for the bar. I’m almost to the alcohol when a powerful hand closes on my shoulder and a voice whispers in my ear: “Don’t move, you outside agitatin’ son of a bitch.”

I whirl, ready for anything, only to find the laughing bearded face of Sam Jacobs, whom I’ve known since we were five years old.

“A little nervous, are we?” Sam wiggles his black eyebrows up and down. “Wishing we’d been a little less candid with the fourth estate?”

I punch him in the chest, then hug him hard.

When Sam and I were tenth-graders at St. Stephens, an assistant football coach invited the varsity football team to establish a chapter of the Brotherhood of Christian Athletes at the school. While the rest of the team lined up to get the necessary applications, two boys remained in the otherwise empty bleachers: Penn Cage and Sam Jacobs. As a Jew, Sam was barred from membership. And I—ever since walking out of Episcopal communion at age thirteen—was a devout agnostic. Under the suspicious gaze of teammates and coaches, Sam and I left that meeting joined in a way that had more to do with manhood than football ever would. Now a petroleum geologist, Jacobs is one of only three non-family members who flew to Houston for Sarah’s funeral.

“It’s great to see you, Sam. What are you doing at this tight-ass function?”

He grins. “I’ve sold Don Perry enough Wilcox production to qualify him as a certified oil maggot.”

“So, that’s how he paid for this palace. You must be doing well.”

“I ain’t complaining. When the bottom dropped out of the drilling business, I slid over into production. Bought up old wells, worked them over, got them running full bore, and sold out at an obscene profit. It’s getting harder to find wells, though. Everybody’s into it now.”

“I’m sure whatever happens, you’ll be the guy sitting on top of the pile.”

“The last guy clinging to the limb, more like.” Sam sips his drink. “How does it feel?”

“What?”

“Having everybody in the place stare at you.”

“I’m pretty used to the fishbowl lifestyle now.”

“Natchez is a lot smaller bowl than Houston. Even small waves seem big here.”

“Come off it. A week from now, who’ll give a damn about that article?”

“Everybody, ace. How much do you know about the BASF deal?”

I shrug. “A little.”