“As in, one of these days, we’ll retire to the islands and sleep in a hammock.”

“Yeah,” I said. “One of these days, we’ll go hunting for the rest of the Nibelungen. Live like old Germanic kings. Party hard and come to a tragic end.”

Lionel smiled.

“At last, something to look forward to.”

■■■

I wasn’t flush for long. Meg insisted I visit the neurologist pal of hers; friend prices or not, it wasn’t cheap. What did I learn from the battery of tests, scans, blood draws, and general imposition? My body was aging fast due to frequent abuse and my brain emitted the occasional peculiar wave. What could be inferred? What could be done? Not a blessed thing, the specialist said while scribbling a referral to a psychiatrist who might be interested in chatting. However, I had a standing invitation to drop in for further observation, gratis.

I promised to be in touch.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Bizarre, titillating gossip about Senator Gerald Redlick emerged as news stories over the summer and autumn. Worst of them all, from Team Redlick’s perspective, was a sordid October Surprise launched in The New York Times. Russian oligarchs, Russian prostitutes, and a selection of dubious real estate details brokered by the Redlick Group ten years past got tongues wagging. Meanwhile, Adeyemi walked out of prison a week prior to the election. The judge heard a motion to dismiss on what the legal community dubbed a bogus technicality. Damned if His Honor didn’t throw out the case too.

I called Bellow for a chat. He’d taken the FBI retirement package and signed with a small security consulting firm after three ugly weeks of not knowing what to do with himself. He, like everybody, figured the slow drip of anti-Redlick info was generated by Adeyemi as a method of enacting retaliation without actually testifying against his ex-boss. Bellow predicted the various news stories wouldn’t amount to much legally. He also forecast that Adeyemi would be arrested on new charges or shot in the back of the head by New Year’s. Word on the wire circulated that Russian tycoons were already putting in orders for the guy’s scalp. Oh, and since we weren’t allowed to have anything nice, I could expect Redlick to hold on to his Senate seat.

Also in the Can’t Have Anything Nice category, I saw Tom Mandibole on a cable news sound bite defending the Redlick Group’s sterling reputation against “scurrilous” and “politically motivated” attack articles. Someone was going to pay, pay, pay! He looked right into the camera at me and grinned.

■■■

Redlick won reelection by the clichéd “razor-thin margin.” This caused Meg to remark, God might be dead, but the devil is in business.

A lone sliver of light penetrated the gloom—Redlick’s colleagues grew spines and did what a majority of voters hadn’t: they punished him for the bad press, if not the bad deeds. He was stripped of his committees and leadership roles and demoted to a rank-and-file sophomore senator. Bereft of status and influence, he wouldn’t be masterminding a resurrection of the Jeffers Project anytime soon.