“I don’t know them. But I know the name. They’re at the auctions every week. They’re lowballers. They only bid when there’s no legitimate buyers, and they never pay a dollar more than rock bottom. I doubt they own anything for longer than a month or two. It’s all about turnover.”

“They paid up this time,” Ted said. “There’s a million-two in surplus money.”

“I find it hard to believe that Corona Partners left a million-two on the table. Not those guys.”

“How do we find them?” Ted asked. “It can’t hurt to ask.”

“They should have someone at the auctions on Friday.”

“Then we’ll be there, too.”

-10-

-10-

Ted joined the line of blue-and-orange-clad fans shuffling toward the gate at Citi Field. He didn’t bother trying to find Jill in the melee; she would already be in her seat watching batting practice, her program open, with freshly sharpened number two pencils at the ready, one tucked behind each ear.

“Will you step this way, sir?” The wand-bearing security officer flagged Ted and waved him to the side. Again. Ted could not imagine what profile he matched that got him tagged for extra treatment as often as he was. Possibly it was the fact that he always arrived at the gate sober that made him stand out.

“Are you carrying any liquids?” the officer asked. “Knives, firearms, or other weapons?”

Ted held up a half-empty bottle of seltzer.

The guard took it and dropped it into a plastic tub. “Any other liquids?”

Ted thought of this as the IQ portion of the test. If you were carrying any of the things on the list, why would you admit it?

He raised his arms in crucifixion pose and waited for the burly man to finish his examination. Why did a security officer need to wear a bulletproof vest under his jacket to keep rowdy teenagers from sneaking in bottles of strawberry-flavored vodka? Confrontations with arbitrary authority often left Ted with such questions.

“Go right ahead, sir,” the officer said. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Ted answered without thinking. He swiped his ticket at the turnstile and passed through.

The venerable firm of Hasting, Fitzmaurice, and Barson had been simultaneously generous and controlling in its treatment of first-year associates. In addition to such amenities as a personal shopper, livery-cab commuting, and free dinners delivered from an approved list of top steak houses and sushi restaurants for anyone forced to work after 8 p.m., the firm had offered gratis season tickets at Yankee Stadium. As a Mets fan and Yankee hater, Ted acted out his rebellion against this political arm-twisting by using a small portion of his signing bonus—earmarked by most new hires for appropriate Brooks Brothers attire—for the purchase of two season tickets for the Mets at Shea Stadium. Why two tickets? Blind optimism.