“Time and perspective lead some to speculate that not all accidents are equal and not all suicides are voluntary.”

“The facts are established. Looking for a scapegoat?”

“Answers will do.”

“Gravity and a sudden stop are the culprits,” he said. “A lifetime of poor choices. Rumor has it Sean suffered from mental illness. Absentminded lad.”

“I’m interested in the truth, not the gossip.”

“The truth. Did he jump or was he pushed? That’s what you’re asking after four years?”

“Yes.”

“What I say is immaterial. You won’t listen.”

“I’m paid to listen.”

“You’re paid to dig. There’s a difference, but it doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to the people who loved him.” I crossed my arms. “Seems perverse to summon me and then yank my chain.”

“Summon you? Hardly. You came to our valley. You impose upon our places of business, enter, uninvited, into our lives. You demanded this meeting. Best that we cut to the chase.”

“A good idea.”

“Dead meat attracts carrion scavengers, predators, and flies. You’ve followed a gamey scent to our doorstep. Conversely, it’s understandable. The ring was removed from your nose the moment you quit the Outfit and so you blunder recklessly. Our house could find a position for you. We could offer you direction.”

A servant poured more wine. I drank it because I needed it.

“Hard pass.”

He smiled pityingly. The Mares smiled cruelly. The Magician sucked and slobbered; maybe he was smiling too. I had a wry epiphany. Amongst the traditional conspiracy theories revolving around faked moon landings, the Kennedy assassination, UFOs, and Bigfoot, a select vintage deals with the conviction that ultrarich folks are a bunch of raving Satanists, mass murderers, and/or closet eugenicists. I’d waded hip-deep into the headwaters of Cuckoo River.

“I’ve had the dubious honor of mixing in the company of assorted megalomaniacal fuckers,” I said. “Sadists. Button men. Capos with delusions of grandeur. Dons consumed by dope habits and untreated venereal disease. Maybe the don read a history book or watched Caligula and it gave him ideas. Baby psychopaths pull the wings off flies. Babies grow to be indolent pieces of shit surrounded by yes-men and whores. They remain babies and psychopaths under the slick haircuts and fancy suits. Their torments are elaborate to the eye. But if you aren’t distracted by the illusion, it’s only a kid smeared in shit; a brat with a magnifying glass.”

The Magician, engrossed in making love to the roast bone, laughed. Mandibole’s expression changed for the worse and the Magician shut up.

“Great, important work proceeds phase by phase in our valley,” Mandibole said. “Pulling the wings off flies constitutes a meager percentage of my free time.”

“Great, important work. Condos? A business plaza? Your stupid abandoned collider?”

“The collider isn’t dead. It’s dreaming.”

“Right on. The Redlicks aren’t guilty of hubris if they can make the magic happen. I guess as long as there’s money and a bunch of rich assholes willing to shovel it, there’s hope.”

He pointed behind his head at the portrait of Redlick.