Willie laughs guiltily.

You look at me as if you want to make me happy, as if you can't possibly be happy unless I am. It's thrilling. It's frightening. It's what I want for the rest of my life. The only thing I want.

That's it?

Life is complicated, Willie, love isn't. My girlfriends do cartwheels for boys who dress nice or dance well or come from good families. They'll find out. There's only one thing that counts. How does a boy look at you? Can you see in his eyes that he'll always be there? That's how you looked at me on the Whip. You had always in your eyes. That's how you're looking at me now. I hear my mother and sister talk-they only dream about what I've got right here under this tree. Oh Willie. I just love you, that's all. Oh.

All Bess's avowals, all her sweet nothings, begin and end with this word. It's the prelude and conclusion to every endearment. Oh-she says it before kissing him. Oh-she says it after. Oh-she says it as she turns her back to him, as if the sight of Willie is just too marvelous to bear.

Oh Willie. Oh.

Sutton lets go of the railing. Okay, boys, let's go. Next stop.

You looked like you were a million miles away, Mr. Sutton.

Two hundred fifty thousand at least.

What were you thinking about?

I was thinking I could use a drink. Willie needs a Jameson.

Oh Mr. Sutton. That does not sound like a good idea.

Kid haven't you figured out by now? None of this is a good idea.

EIGHT.

Willie has seen the Endner house many times from the outside-stained-gla.s.s windows, fancy bal.u.s.trades, an iron gate with spikes along the top-and he's always cowered before it. At the start of 1919, wearing his black t.i.tle Guaranty suit, he steps inside for the first time.

A butler takes his coat. Willie blinks, trying to adjust his vision. If Coney Island is the brightest place on earth, Chateau Endner is the darkest.

We keep the house dim for Mummy, Bess whispers. She suffers migraines.

Bess leads Willie by the hand down a long hall and into a library, the walls of which are lined with enormous gla.s.s-doored bookcases. Willie glances at the t.i.tles: mostly rare Bibles, a.s.sorted religious texts. The floor is covered by a ma.s.sive wool rug. It came from China, Bess whispers.

Mr. and Mrs. Endner stand at the far end of the rug, warming themselves before a fireplace big enough to roast a deer. The crack and pop of wood are the only sounds in the room, the flames the only light.

Mummy, Daddy, this is Willie.

Willie goes forth. Crossing the rug takes longer than swimming the East River. He shakes their hands. Nothing is said for several moments. A maid appears at Willie's side, offers him a gla.s.s of sherry. Thank you, he says, his voice cracking like the firewood.

A second maid announces that dinner is served.

Willie and Bess follow Mr. and Mrs. Endner down another long hall into a high-ceilinged dining room. The darkest room yet-only two candelabra. Willie surveys the table. It would take up half his house. Mr. Endner sits at the head, Mrs. Endner at the far end. Willie and Bess sit in the middle, on opposite sides. A third maid sets before Willie a plate of grilled lamb chops with mint jelly, scalloped potatoes.

Mrs. Endner says grace. Amen, Willie says, a little too loudly.

Mr. Endner doesn't touch his food. Instead he makes a meal of his mustaches while watching Willie. Bess warned Willie, her father plays with his mustaches when upset.

Where do you work, Willie?

Well sir. I'm looking for work right now. I was recently laid off from a munitions factory. Before that I worked for t.i.tle Guaranty.

And what became of that position?

I was laid off also.

Mr. Endner gives his left mustache a hard tug.

What faith do you practice, son?

I was raised Catholic sir.

Mr. Endner pushes the right mustache up into his nostril. The Endners are Baptist, he says. In fact Mr. John D. Rockefeller Sr. is a close friend-he's eaten at this table. His son is talking about building a new Baptist church. It's going to be glorious. Grander than anything they have in Europe.

The last thing Willie heard about old man Rockefeller: Eddie said his father bilked sick people down south, sold them snake oil. Which is ironic, Eddie said, since Rockefeller started Standard Oil. Willie fills his mouth with food, nods. Yes sir, I believe I read something about that.

Mrs. Endner looks at Willie, then Bess. William, she says-where do your people come from?

Brooklyn mam.

Yes. We know. But your ancestors.

Willie chews his lamb slowly, stalling, which heightens the suspense now gripping the table. Ireland mam.

Willie can hear nothing but the pounding of his own heart and the compounding of interest in the Endner bank accounts. Everyone around the table, even the servants off in the shadows, seems to be envisioning the same selective montage of Irish history. Druids performing human sacrifices on oaken altars. Celtic warriors running naked toward Caesar's legions. Toothless hags hurling bombs from behind the golden throne of the Pope.

The Endners hail from Germany, Mrs. Endner says, looking as though a once-in-a-lifetime migraine is coming on. Hamburg, she adds.

Willie is taken aback at her prideful tone. Even being a Hun is better than being a Mick. He stares at the potatoes on his plate, wondering if he should push them aside, defy at least one cultural stereotype. Only Bess's steady rea.s.suring gaze keeps him from fleeing the room, the house, Brooklyn.

The next night Willie meets Bess at a soda fountain in Coney Island. Her face is pale. He's never seen her without high color in her cheeks. He knows what's coming, but it's still a shock to hear the words.

Willie Boy, my father has forbidden me from seeing you ever again.

She looks down at her dish of ice cream. Willie does the same. His senses are strangely heightened. He can feel the ice cream melt. He knows what Bess wants him to say, what he must say. And do. When he looks up, she's waiting.

Okay, Bess. I'll go talk to him.

They pile back in the Polara. Events were set in motion, Sutton whispers.

What, Mr. Sutton?

Bess and I had a talk. January 1919. Everything flowed from that talk, that moment. Everything. Look back on your life and see if you can pinpoint the moment when everything changed. If you can't? That means you haven't had your moment yet, and you better hold on to your a.s.s, it's coming.

Where did this talk take place?

Coney Island. Mermaid Avenue. I was going to put it on the map. I don't know why I didn't. Maybe I couldn't face it. Is there anything more painful than remembering? And it's a self-inflicted pain, we do it to ourselves. Ah Christ, maybe you can say that about all pain.

But you said we should remember. That remembering is our way of saying f.u.c.k you to time.

Did I?

Willie, wearing his gray t.i.tle Guaranty suit, knocks at the door on President Street. A maid shows him into an office off the vestibule. As planned, Bess is out with her girlfriends.

The office floor is covered with a full bearskin, its mouth about to devour the floorboards, its round snout shiny and black as an eight ball. Above a brick fireplace hangs a gray wolf's head, fangs bared.

Willie stands before a mahogany desk covered with neatly stacked account books, model ships, letter openers that could slice open a man. He holds his hat by the brim, takes a step back, almost trips over the bear's paw. He wonders if he should sit. He wishes he could smoke. From a door on the far side of the office Mr. Endner enters. Willie, he says.

Mr. Endner sir. Thank you for seeing me.

Mr. Endner seats himself behind the desk. He's wearing a blue serge suit with a gray bow tie and his eyes are dull, as if he's just wakened from a nap. He gestures to a straight-backed chair across from him. Willie sits. They eye each other like boxers at the opening bell.

The floor is yours, Willie.

Well sir. I came to ask you to please reconsider your decision. I think if you'd give me half a chance, you'd see that I'm a good and decent person, that I care for your daughter very much. And I think she cares for me.

Mr. Endner spins a fountain pen on the desk blotter. He moves a few envelopes, sets a letter opener atop them, picks up a silver dollar and raps it on the mahogany desktop. What's the most valuable thing you own, Willie?

Willie thinks. This must be a trap, since every answer that comes to mind sounds wrong. He looks at the silver dollar. Sir, I don't own anything valuable.

Mr. Endner rocks in the desk chair, causing it to squeak. Well that's part of the problem right there isn't it? But let's say you did. Let's say you owned a diamond as big as this silver dollar.

Yes sir.

What would you do with it?

Do sir?

How would you treat it? Would you swap it for a root beer?

No sir.

A ten-cent cone?

No sir.

Of course you wouldn't. Would you give it away for nothing?

No sir.

Well then you understand my position. G.o.d Himself placed Bess in our hands and she's worth more than any diamond. It's our job to take the utmost care in choosing who gets her. No easy task. It keeps Mrs. Endner and me awake nights. And Bess, much as we love her, doesn't make it easier. She's a willful little girl, with a fondness for trouble. As you well know. That's why she's fond of you, I suppose.

She says she loves me sir.

I would take that c.u.m grano salis, son.

But sir.

Look, I have nothing against you per se, Willie, but let's be frank. You can't possibly think in your heart of hearts that you're a suitable match for Bess.

Willie suddenly finds it difficult to breathe. He tugs at his collar.

Mr. Endner, sir, I've had a few tough breaks, it's true. Losing two jobs. I've stumbled out of the starting gate in life, I guess. But still. My luck's bound to change.

How do you know, son? How can you be sure? None of us knows what bad luck is. Or where it comes from. Maybe it's temporary, like an illness. Or permanent, like a birthmark. Maybe it's wild and random like the wind. Maybe it's a sign of G.o.d's displeasure. Either way. Let's say through sheer bad luck you're out of work, on your uppers-is that supposed to ease my mind? This is a country for lucky people. Do I want my little girl to be with someone p.r.o.ne to bad luck?

To address your earlier point sir. I know Bess is a diamond sir. No one needs to tell me. But it seems like you're saying she should be with a fella who can afford diamonds, and wouldn't a fella like that be liable to take a diamond for granted? Wouldn't a fella who's never so much as seen a diamond until a few months ago be more liable to cherish one? And sir I wish I'd thought to say this when you first asked, but I'm very nervous, and it hits me just now that if I had a diamond I wouldn't have any trouble figuring what to do with it. I'd give it straightaway to Bess.

Okay, Willie, I see how it is.

Thank you sir.

What's it going to take?

Sir?

To make you disappear?

I don't. What?

I'll have my attorney draw up a paper this afternoon. Legally binding. Sign it, agree to stay away from my daughter, and I'll write you a check with more zeros than the scoreboard when Walter Johnson pitches. You'll be able to live quite well until you secure another position. You'll be able to live well if you don't find work for years.

Willie stands, turns his hat in his hands, one full circle.

Mr. Endner, sir, I don't want your money. You can draw up a paper saying I can't ever have one red cent of it. That paper I'll sign.

So you're ethical then?

Yes sir.

You have character.

I do sir. If you'd just get to know me- Then surely you wouldn't do anything to damage the relationship of a young girl and her parents. Surely your ethics, your character, will prevent you from interfering in a private family matter.

Willie blinks.

I've forbidden Bess to see you, Willie. Whether or not you agree with my decision, should you violate my wishes, should you transgress the rules of this household, you'll confirm my darkest fears about you. You want to show me who you really are? Stay away.

Willie can hear the wolf and the bear snickering.