Herbie opened the bedroom door and walked in. Both beds were disheveled, and one contained a large lump. Herbie drew back the sheet. “Hey, Dink?” he yelled, close to the young man’s ear.

“Huh?” the boy said, lifting his head from the pillow. “Yeah? Who are you guys?” He sat up. “Oh, I get it; you’re from Carlo. Tell him I’ll have his money in a few days.”

“Get on your feet, Dink,” Herbie said, and the boy obediently got out of bed and stood there, awkwardly.

“Have a seat at your desk,” Herbie said. Dink did so. Herbie produced two documents and a pen. “Sign these.”

“What are they?”

Herbie slapped him smartly on the back of the head. “Questions later. Sign them.”

Dink signed his name.

“Willie, Jimmy, witness, please, in the spaces provided.”

The Leahys did so while Dink looked nervously at Herbie.

Herbie tucked the documents into his pocket, walked over to a leather club chair, swept it free of dirty clothes, and sat down.

“If you’re not from Carlo, who are you?” Dink asked.

“We’re not from Carlo,” he said. “We’re the good guys. The bad guys come later, if you and I don’t have a satisfactory conversation.”

“I don’t get it,” Dink said, now fully awake.

“I’m your new attorney,” Herbie said. “Don’t worry, your father is paying.”

“Paying for what?”

“For my getting you out of this terrible fix you’re in.”

Dink shook his head. “I’m not in any kind of fix. All I have to do is pay the bookie.”

“How much do you owe him?” Herbie asked.

“I don’t know, exactly,” Dink said, “but I can handle it.”

“How will you handle it, Dink? Are you dealing drugs?”

“Of course not,” Dink replied.

“Do you have any other source of income? Other than your father, I mean.”

“Ah, no. Why do I need a lawyer?”

“To get you out of the treatment center.”

“What treatment center?”

“It’s called Winwood Farm. I understand it’s a lovely place.”

“Treatment for what?”

“For an addiction to gambling and the drug of your choice, which is cocaine, isn’t it?”

“I snort a little now and then,” Dink said.

“Yeah, sure. Let’s cut to the chase, Dink. Your father loves you, and he’s very concerned about you. That’s why we’re here, instead of the bookie. He’s going to pay off the bookie, and—Oh, by the way, how much do you owe your dealer?”

“Not a dime,” Dink said. “He insists on cash.”

“That makes it simpler,” Herbie replied. “Now, the two documents you just signed are these: a durable power of attorney, giving me control over all your affairs, including your relationship with Yale, and a self-commitment form, making you a residential patient at Winwood Farm, which is only a few miles from here.”

“I’m not going to any loony bin,” the boy said.

“Jimmy,” Herbie said, “pack Dink a small bag—just some underwear, a change of clothes, and his slippers. That’s all he’ll need.”

Jimmy went to a closet, found a small duffel, and rifled a chest of drawers. “Got it all,” he said, zipping the bag shut.