Lionel waved his good arm in an encompassing gesture. His doctor advised minimal physical activity until the break completely healed. I figured the doc was ahead of the game in that Lionel wasn’t performing calisthenics yet.

“Roads, bridges, plumbing,” he said. “This cozy, white-bread hiking path. The dirt under our feet. Everything we have, we have thanks to the conniving of murderous shithead colonizing ancestors.”

“So, let’s not be hard on conniving, murderous shitheads?”

“Let’s not be hard on ourselves is what I’m saying. Our conniving shitheadedness is a survival trait.”

“Nature’s plan,” I said, more to myself than to him.

“Means we live long enough to pass our shithead genes to a new generation. Can’t argue with Nature.”

Glancing over my shoulder to ascertain no skiers or snowshoers were within earshot, I caught him up to speed on what Meg had learned of the provenance of our buried treasure and the ties between its original owner, Arnaout Wagner, and the Labradors.

“That’s terrific. Is that supposed to be a lead? Let me know when you decide to get serious. Speaking of those rich bastards . . .”

Lionel expressed an intense and recent fascination with crime and punishment, and how it pertained to the Labrador family business, Zircon Corp. The family and its holdings had gotten into legal hot water over the years. Notable were the troubles that befell one Labrador man or another. Delia’s uncle Zebulon, for example, had gotten clapped in irons several years ago for brokering arms deals with China and ordering acts of industrial sabotage against corporate rivals. The big Z was liable to die in prison. Lionel trawled the Internet for old news clips of Zebulon Labrador’s high-profile federal trial. The man possessed a fantastic aesthetic, although nothing on the good green earth could’ve saved him from the hammer of justice swung by an irate judge. Even he wasn’t privileged enough to withstand the unbridled wrath of a government who’d been cut out of the lucrative black-market weapons trade.

“Where do you suppose all those fancy clothes went?” Lionel said, almost wistful. “Ostrich jackets? Cobra suits? Sharkskin boots? Did the government confiscate that swag? Was there an auction like they do with cars? Is there a fat cat version of Goodwill? A bunch of slightly less obscenely rich dudes going through the obscenely rich dude’s shit. You get the boots! You get the jacket and the pants. That Rolex is mine, bitch!”

“For the love of God, man,” I said. “Call Delia. You’ve got it bad if you’re going to ramble on about Uncle Z’s damned wardrobe.”

“I’m not calling her. She can gallivant around Italy if that makes her happy.”

“You’re driving me up a tree. Show some resolve. Talk about anything else until we get back to the car. I’ll start the timer.”

Lionel pushed his shades aside so he could roll his eyes at me.

“Resolve? I’ve gone thirty hours without itching my balls because I was set up in a blind, waiting for a green light on some Taliban target.”