Mack glared through his wet hair and the spray. I should punch you.

Lane opened the showers glass door. How many of me are there?

Two. The man accepted the mug with his wet hands. But thats down from four and a half.

So its working.

{ 255 }.

23494.

Mack took a draw of the java at the same time he reached around and juiced the H handle. Coffees not bad.

Would you know if it were paint thinner?

Probably not.

Lane pointed over his own shoulder. Ill be in there, waiting. Robes on the back of the door. Do me a favor and dont come out naked.

You couldnt handle me.

Too right.

Closing things up, Lane went into his closet, put on a set of fresh clothes and then took a load off where Mack had failed to retain verticality. A little later, the Master Distiller made his grand, robed appearance.

The two of them had played basketball together for Charle mont Country Day before theyd gone to college, and the guy was as athletic as hed always been, with no fat on him and the lanky build of a man who could play golf like a pro, run a marathon better than idiots ten years younger than he was, and still plow the lane on a b- ball court.

Oh, and there was still nothing stupid in those unusual, pale brown eyes. In a romance novel, Macs peepers would have been called whiskey or something" but it wasnt the uncommon color that had gotten all those women into the guys bed.

No, there had been so much more to all of that.

And people called him a ladys man? Lane thought to himself. Edwin MacAllan was worse.

You got any more of this? Mack held the mug up. I think another gallon should do it.

Help yourself. Its single- serve, in there.

The guy glanced over at the open door to the little kitchen. Right, I make bourbon. I should be able to handle caffeine.

On that note, let me do the duty again. I need some myself, and burning down the house this morning would be a buzzkill.

The two of them ended up in the chaise lounges over by the windows like a pair of little old ladies. Little old ladies who both needed a shave.

Talk to me. Lane plugged his elbows into his knees. Whats go- ing on at the company.

{ 256 }.

23494.

Mack shook his head. Its bad. Ive been drunk for two days.

Like the latters ever stopped you before. We went on spring break together, remember? Six times. Of which only two were actually on the school calendar.

Mack smiled, but the expression didnt last. Look, Ive kept my thoughts about your father to myself"

And you can stop that right now. Do you think I dont know what hes like?

There was a long pause. I didnt know how high up the memo went.

I thought maybe the stop- buy came from the suits, but I was wrong. I asked around" it was at your fathers specific direction. I mean, the man runs a billion- dollar business. Why does he care about"

You need to back up. I have no clue what youre talking about?

Hes cutting me off. Hes stopping production.

Lane jerked forward. What?

I got a memo the day before yesterday on my desk. Im not allowed to buy any more corn. No corn, no mash. No mash, no more bourbon.

He shrugged and took another hit of the coffee. I shut the stills down.

For the first time since the move to Canada during Prohibition . . . I stopped it all. Sure, Ive got some silos that are full, but Im not doing a goddamn thing. Not until I speak with your father and find out what the hell hes thinking. I mean, is the board up to something? Are they sell- ing us to China and want things to look better on paper by cutting ex- penses? But even that doesnt make any sense" they want us to delay for six months in the middle of this bourbon boom the country is experiencing?

Lane stayed silent, all kinds of bad math happening in his brain.

I wish Edward were around. Mack shook his head. Edward would never let this happen.

Lane rubbed his aching head. Funny, he thought the same thing.

Well . . . hes not.

So, if you dont mind lending me a set of dry clothes, Im going to go find that father of yours. To hell with your English bulldog downstairs"

William Baldwine is going to see me"

{ 257 }.

23494.

Mack.

" and explain why"

Mack. Lane looked the man straight in the eye. Can I trust you?

The distiller frowned. Of course you can.

I need to get into the companys computer system. I need access to financials, account details, annual reports. And I need you to not say a word about it to anyone.

What are you" why?

Can you help me?

Mack set the mug down. As much as Im able, yeah. Sure.

Ill meet you down by your car. Lane got to his feet. Im driving.

Help yourself to anything but the seersucker suit in the closet"

Lane. What the hells going on here?

Theres a possibility that the cut-off isnt a business strategy.

Mack frowned as if something had been spoken to him in a foreign language. Im sorry, what?

Lane looked out the window, down to the garden, to the tent. He pictured the people who would be under there in about two hours, all of them basking in the extended glory and wealth of the great Bradford family.

If you ever say a word about this to anyone"

Really. Youre warning me about that.

Lane glanced back at his friend. We may be out of money.

Mack blinked. Thats not possible.

Heading for the door, Lane said over his shoulder, Well see. Re- member, anything but the seersucker.

{ 258 }.

23494.

T W ENT Y- NINE.

T he first thing Edward did when he woke up was curse.

Head was pounding. Body was a patchwork of pain, nau- sea, and stiffness. Brain was . . .

Surprisingly crystal clear.

And for once, that wasnt a bad thing.

As he gathered up the strength to get to his feet, he let images of that woman from the night before filter through his mind. He was still drunk" or pickled, was more like it" so he was able to immerse himself totally in memories of the feel, the smell, the taste of her. The context might have been fake all around, something that had been scheduled and paid for, but the experience had been . . .

Beautiful, he supposed the word was.

Rearranging himself in his pants, he grabbed his cane, heaved him- self up, and wobbled. The bathroom was about seventeen miles away in that corner, and he"

When he went to step forward, he kicked something across the floor.

What the . . . ? Frowning, he leaned down, balancing on his cane so that he did not become yet another rug upon the floor.

{ 259 }.

23494.

It was an evening bag.

One of those boxy little silk- wrapped numbers with a rhinestone clasp on it.

The woman had had it with her. He could vaguely recall thinking that it had been exactly the kind of thing Sutton would have used.

Edward was careful as he made his way over and bent to pick the thing up. God only knew what was in it.

Shuffling back to his armchair, he grabbed his phone off the side table. Calling Beaus number, he glanced at the clock across the way.

Seven thirty. The pimp would be still up, winding down from his night shift.

Hello? a rough voice said. Edward?

The lady left something at my house last night. Her bag.

Yall sure about that?

Im sorry?

Well, see, I was gonna call you. Your girl, the one what I sent, said someone was done already leaving when she got there?

Edward frowned, thinking maybe he wasnt quite as with it as hed thought. Im sorry? he repeated" because that was the only thing that came to him.

The girl I sent. She come to your place at ten oclock, but there was another woman leaving, saying shed taken care of you. Said she was coming back next week. I cant figure out which of my girls it was. Can you open the purse up and tell me who?

Total, clinical sobriety came over Edward sure as if someone had ice bucketed his head. But of course.

Holding the phone between his ear and shoulder, he snapped open the bags flap, a black glossy lipstick tube jumping out and bouncing across the floorboards. There were three thin cards in there, and he bypassed the Centurion Amex and the health- insurance ID . . . and took out the drivers license.

Sutton Smythe.

With the correct address of her familys estate.

Edward? Hello? Edward, you all right, chere?

{ 260 }.

23494.

He must have moaned or something. It wasnt one of your girls.

No?