Lili, the twentysomething-going-on-forty day-shift bartender, was watching the talking heads on one of the two televisions over the bar. A grinning real estate developer with a glistening, almost reflective bald pate was holding forth on the local economy of Queens. From what Ted had picked up, the guy was taking credit for job creation, tax reduction, and resodding the soccer fields in the park. The cameras liked him.

Ted managed to catch Lili’s eye, a not terribly difficult feat considering that the only other customer was Paulie McGirk, who occupied the last barstool against the far wall every day from opening until dinner rush, or until he passed out, whichever came first. When Henry bought the pub, Paulie had been included with the other fixtures.

She raised an eyebrow in response. Ted pointed at Richie and she nodded.

Ted turned to Richie. “What’ve we got?”

Richie had a penchant for committing short cons and other small-time property crimes, but Ted had kept him marginally, and legally, employed for four years. Richie was almost old enough to be Ted’s father and had grown up in one of the least diverse enclaves in Queens, the United States’ most ethnically and culturally diverse county. This perspective gave him a singular belief in his innate superiority and catholic ability to understand—and hoodwink—anyone from any background. The fact that he had repeatedly failed at this—and had the police record to prove it—was testimony to his true talent: self-delusion.

In their work together, Richie did the research. Ted closed the deals. They were not partners. Neither would have allowed it. Richie because he had never learned to play well with others, Ted because he knew better. Richie looked through public documents for foreclosure auctions that resulted in “surplus money.” When, for whatever reason, an owner walked away from a property—commercial only; Ted avoided the heartbreaks of residential foreclosures—and stopped paying the mortgage or taxes or water bill, the building was eventually sold at auction. If some Trump wannabe paid more than the claimants were demanding, the resulting funds were called “surplus money.” If the original owner did not claim these funds, they went to the government and were eventually absorbed by that great maw. These kinds of opportunities were neither common nor rare. Ted made a living off them, but only because he worked at it.

His part of the job took over where Richie’s left off. Ted examined the files and attempted to locate and cut a deal with the original owners, taking a hefty finder’s fee for reuniting these hapless businessmen with the last recoverable scraps of their failed real estate empires. Sometimes it worked; more often it did not. Not everyone wanted to be found or, when found, appreciated being contacted regarding a painful and destructive phase in their lives. Ted managed to have more good years than bad by concentrating on hitting singles and doubles. There were few home runs.