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Which was probably what Charles Forbes said about John Wilkes Booth before admitting him to Lincoln’s theater box. Still, it was none of my business, and I had no shortage of other people’s troubles to occupy me. If that ever ceased to be the case, I’d be out of a job, but it wasn’t likely in the short term.

“So?” asked Macy.

“Zetta says she’s okay. She says Riggins is okay, too.”

“That’s reassuring,” said Louis. “Be a pity if she became the first woman to make that mistake.”

“No gun,” said Angel, “and his pants are too narrow to take an ankleholster, but he’s carrying a knife: something short with a fixed blade, worn horizontally, not vertically, the handle within easy reach when he hitches the jacket.”

“Maybe he whittles,” said Louis.

“A gun would be better,” I said.

“Not for whittling,” said Louis, “but unless he tries to whittle one of us, he’s someone else’s problem. Let’s go eat.”

So we prepared to leave. I paused by the door and saw Zetta Nadeau’s head bobbing at the center of a crowd while Grace Holmes hovered at the periphery, all strained smiles. Wyatt Riggins’s attention was elsewhere. He was leaning against a wall, playing with an old flip phone, like a man waiting—or wishing—to be summoned away.

“Riggins?” guessed Macy.

“Just curious.”

“What’s he doing?”

“Nothing,” I replied. “But a lot of it.”

CHAPTERVIII

We had reserved a table at Batson River, so we didn’t have far to walk. What used to be a somnolent zone between Congress and I-295, mainstays like the Bayside Bowl excepted, was now much livelier, with Batson River as one of the anchors. At the start, I feared the bar might be too flashy for Portland. With its deer antlers and moose head on the wall, and its stone fireplace, it might have been designed for Telluride or Park City and somehow been misdelivered. But what did I know? Rooms at the more upscale hotels in town cost $800 a night on summer weekends, with breakfast extra, so an $18 pizza at Batson River counted as a bargain.

While we waited for our food to arrive, I spotted Moxie Castin at a private reception in the back room. I did some work for Moxie, who was also my lawyer. He liked to assure me that when he could no longer keep me out of jail, he’d come visit once a month and do his best to ensure I had a cell with a view. I caught his eye, and he stepped away to join us. He kissed Macy and scowled at Angel and Louis, already anticipating a hard time from one or both of them.

“Nice suit,” said Louis, fingering Moxie’s lapel. “I like the shine. It’s hard to get the blend right so the natural fibers don’t overwhelm the nylon.”

“It’s silk, you barbarian.” Moxie batted Louis’s hand away. “I got it made special. The stitching’s invisible.”

“If it rains, you’ll be in trouble. The soap holding it together will turn to bubbles.”

Moxie decided to ignore him. I admired Moxie’s optimism.

“It doesn’t look like a gathering of lawyers in there,” I said. “No accident victim is being circled.”

“My secretary’s daughter got married,” said Moxie. “I wanted to wish her better luck than I’ve had.” Moxie had been married so often that inviting him to a wedding was like bringing a burn victim to a bonfire. “What’s your excuse?”

“The opening of Zetta Nadeau’s new show.”

“She’s a good kid, but flighty. I took care of some contract stuff for her, back before that last show in New York, the one nobody liked. You suppose they’re going to appreciate this one more?”

“Zetta doesn’t think so.”

“She ought to have gone into law. She still wouldn’t have been liked, but the money’s better.”

“She has a new boyfriend.”

“So? Zetta always has a new boyfriend. It must be a creative thing. From your tone, I gather you don’t approve of this one.”

Now that Wyatt Riggins had come to my attention, I found him difficult to dislodge.

“He gives the impression of trailing aggravation.”