Page 114 of The Instruments of Darkness

“Letterman’s dead?” said Louis.

“Funny,” said Angel. “Zevon’s dead. Letterman’s just old. He’s got a beard like one of Noah’s deckhands. Anyway, Letterman asks Zevon if facing death has taught him anything. Zevon thinks about it, and says, ‘Enjoy every sandwich.’ The sandwich is a metaphor. Or I think that’s what it is. It might also be an actual sandwich.”

“Please let there be a point to this,” I said.

“What I’m trying to say is, the Macy thing, just go with it. If it doesn’t work out, you’ll have had some good times. Doesn’t mean it won’t hurt if it falls apart, but it won’t kill you either.”

The check arrived. Angel passed it to me.

“For the life tutelage,” he said. “That kind of advice doesn’t come cheap.”

I STEPPED OUTSIDE TO call Moxie. He was surprised to learn of Nowak’s approach, but as anticipated, he took it to mean that the AG wasn’t convinced Erin Becker could secure the required verdict at trial, and Nowak would accept a partial victory over a total defeat. Moxie also agreed that the fact Becker hadn’t been present for the discussion meant she wasn’t feeling the same degree of pessimism. It betokened a potential fracture in the prosecution’s ranks, which might be helpful to our side.

“Where are you now?” asked Moxie.

“The Bayou Kitchen. We’re on our way to talk to Bobby Ocean.”

“Who’s ‘we’?”

“Use your imagination.”

“For the last time, are you sure this visit is absolutely necessary? You already put Antoine Pinette on notice.”

“Bobby overstepped the mark once. I want to be sure he doesn’t try again.”

“And then?”

“I’ve done what I can here. We need to go hunting for Mara Teller.”

“All three of you?”

“Four. We’ll be taking Sabine Drew with us.”

“I got some used tea leaves here, if you think they’ll help. I could also spring for a Ouija board.”

“She may have her own. One more thing: Reggio has gone dark, which Amara says is out of character. It could be nothing, except she believes he may have been working independently on the Clark case.”

“Give me strength,” said Moxie. “Does she want to go to the police?”

“That would be a last resort. She’s going to send me whatever she can find in his home office.”

“I can tell you he’s not having an affair. She’d kill him if he did. I’ll drop by to see her in an hour or two. If he doesn’t surface by tomorrow, I’ll take her down to talk to the cops myself. They’ll be reluctant to designate him a missing person too quickly, but I may be able to have them spread the word. I know Reggio’s not to your taste, but he’s solid, and I like him.”

“I admit I may have judged him too harshly.”

“You?” said Moxie. “Hush your mouth.”

CHAPTER LXXIII

The William Stonehurst Foundation for American Ideas occupied a dull, single-story nineties building off Clarks Pond Parkway in South Portland. The premises had formerly been occupied by a debt collection agency that went bankrupt, however that was accomplished, and the ghostly silhouettes of the company name remained visible on the exterior, along with the words RACISTS OUT and a swastika, both of which had been imperfectly whitewashed over. Weeds grew through the cracks in the cement parking lot and a large animal, or possibly a regular-sized human being, had taken a dump in one of the spaces.

“So this is where the white folk are mustering to take their country back?” said Louis. “I got to say, I’m trembling.”

“We’re still working out the kinks,” I said. “Sometimes you have to start small.”

Three vehicles sat in front of the building, one of them Bobby Ocean’s black Hummer, which I’d seen around town. It was a recent purchase, acquired used, and among the last of the originals to roll off the line in 2010. Only blockheads drove Humvees, but Bobby still contrived to give them a bad image. I parked as far from it as possible, because the persistence of the William Stonehurst Foundation for American Ideas was proof that benightedness was contagious.

Lately, Bobby had been in the news for promoting assorted prepper, secessionist, and exit arguments, including the use of cryptocurrencies and decentralized autonomous organizations to found independent communities; and advocating that Maine, like Wyoming, should permit DAOs to incorporate as private companies as a step toward achieving that end. To be honest, I wasn’t completely sure what a DAO was, even after Louis tried to explain it to me. I ended up with a vague notion of blockchains, tokens, digital interactions, and an absence of central leadership, which sounded like a good way to go about one’s business without too much government interference. Whatever the reality, if Bobby Ocean was for it, I was against.