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Lane raised the glass to his mouth, then said, “Well, I feel like shit.”

Joey Fitz narrowed his eyes as he studied Lane.

“Okay, okay,” Fitzgerald finally said, and motioned with his head toward the entrance to an adjoining room. “C’mon and follow me.”

—

Lining the wood-paneled walls were ten booths with black leather seats and charcoal gray linen privacy curtains. Two of the tables closest to the lounge were taken, and Fitzgerald crossed the room and went to the farthest booth. As he pulled back the curtain, he waved to a waiter and called out, “Bring us menus.”

Fitzgerald motioned for Lane to take a seat, and, as he did, Fitzgerald slid into the seat across the table from him. The privacy curtain fell closed behind them.

Lane reached into his black blazer and produced the envelope containing fifty thousand dollars that John T. Austin had given him. He put it on the table in front of Fitzgerald, who picked it up and, without looking inside, slipped it in his suit pocket.

“The usual fifty,” Lane said, keeping his gravel voice low.

“How’s our friend doing after that accident?” Joey Fitz said, changing the subject.

“Accident?” Lane parroted, his voice rising. He brought it back down as he said, “That was a damn hit job. The driver got hit with buckshot.”

Joey Fitz did not reply.

Lane said, “And Johnny got banged up pretty bad. Not bullet wounds. But his face is one big ugly bruise. And he cracked an arm.”

Joey Fitz’s eyebrows went up. He took a sip of his drink.

“Well,” he said, “at least he’s better off than the other guy.”

Lane nodded.

“Yeah. He’s pretty upset over that. And Camilla Rose Morgan’s death.”

“They figure out what that was all about?”

Lane shook his head.

“No telling. I saw her a couple hours before it happened. She seemed fine. Drinking a bit. But, then, we all were.”

“She fell, ya think? Had to. Girl like that wouldn’t’ve jumped, no? Not when she’s got everything going for her.”

“Yeah. You’d think.” Lane paused, then nodded toward where Joey Fitz had stuffed the envelope. “Austin said that could be the last one of those.”

Fitzgerald, who was about to take a sip of his drink, looked over the lip of the glass and met Lane’s eyes.

“You tell him he’d better think that through?” Joey Fitz said.

“Yeah. He said he needed a little time to sort out what happens next. I mean, two people close to him are dead, and he almost died, too.”

Fitzgerald took a long sip as he considered that. He made a face of annoyance.

“We have an agreement,” he said.

“And it’s been lived up to.”

Joey Fitz reached in his pocket, pulled out the envelope, ran a finger through its contents, then, apparently satisfied, stuffed it back in his pocket.

“So far, it has,” he said. “But what you’re now telling me—”

“I’m just saying what he said.”