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In the evening, after the Kid had left for the day, and after Natasha, the fat Russian receptionist, had departed, Timothy returned to his office. He removed the corporate check ledger from his desk drawer and wrote a check for fifty thousand dollars, payable to the Kid.

For Timothy, it was more than simply paying him off. He felt sorry for him. Jay Strauss had gotten a bad break, getting hooked up with Osiris. And despite the Kid's anger at having his career derailed, and despite his disgust with Timothy for sleeping with the young secretary (whom he himself had desired), the Kid was, in the end, a gentleman. He did, after all, agree to stick around after giving notice, and to help Timothy wind down Osiris gracefully. So Timothy owed the Kid something. If he happened to remember Timothy's generosity when testifying in Chicago, well, that would be all right, too.

Besides, this kind of generosity was easy. The fifty-thousand-dollar expense would come out of his investors' hides. It was always easy to be generous with OPM – other people's money.

Timothy decided to drive over to the Kid's house and give him the check. It would be a sign of respect to personally hand it to him rather than to mail it, to meet him on his own ground.

He looked up the Kid's address in his Rolodex. He lived in Menlo Park, a few minutes away.

The Kid lived in a leafy residential neighborhood behind the Safeway. It was a mix of small houses and low-density apartments – duplexes and quad-plexes – but the houses were primarily rented by Stanford students and professors.

Timothy pulled into a gravel driveway and stopped at the Kid's house. You can tell when a house is a rental: the grass is never mowed or properly watered. It was the same at the Kid's – brown grass, too long in places, and an old hose and sprinkle snaking around the front yard, looking like it hadn't moved in a while.

Timothy rang the doorbell. He heard the sound of music, unfamiliar rock music that had mercifully skipped his generation. The music went mute, and the Kid opened the front door. He was dressed in a T-shirt and jeans.

‘Timothy,' he said. The Kid seemed surprised.

‘Sorry to drop by unannounced,' Timothy said. ‘I thought I'd surprise you. I have something for you.' He removed the check from his pocket. It was still folded neatly in half. He held it out between his middle and index finger.

‘What's this?'

‘A beautiful fruit plate. Can't you tell?' Then: ‘Let's just say it's a Thank You, and an I'm Sorry.'

The Kid opened the check and looked at the amount. He raised an eyebrow. ‘This is unexpected.'

‘It's my pleasure.'

‘Well, thank you.'

‘Really,' Timothy said pointedly, ‘my pleasure.'

Suddenly Timothy felt strange and uncomfortable. Why was the Kid blocking his entrance to the house? Why wasn't he inviting him in?

‘This is nice of you,' the Kid said. ‘I would normally invite you in, but …' His voice trailed off.

In the background, from the house, came the sound of a footstep and a floorboard creaking.

Then Timothy understood. ‘Oh,' he said. The Kid had a guest. Probably a female guest. It was something Timothy had never considered. He felt like a dolt. ‘I'm sorry.'

‘No, it's just, uh …' The Kid looked over his shoulder, nervously.

‘Okay,' Timothy said. ‘Sorry to interrupt. I just wanted to give you that. To thank you.'

‘I appreciate it,' the Kid said. He kept his arm across the doorway, blocking the entrance.

‘All right, I'll see you tomorrow.'

‘All right. Thanks.'

Before Timothy could say another word, the Kid nodded and closed the door.

When he arrived home, Tricia was in the kitchen, sautéing sliced onions in a skillet, cooking dinner.

‘Hello, dear,' she said. ‘Busy day at work?' It was a running joke, now that Osiris was winding down, and Timothy did even less work than usual – practically nothing.

He kissed her. ‘The usual bullshit. Too many martinis at lunch.'

‘How is Natasha, your new secretary? Are you going to replace me with her?'

‘I already did.'

‘I mean in the bedroom.'

‘That's what
I
meant.'

‘You're terrible.'

‘She smells like blintzes. How is that possible?' He took off his suit jacket and folded it over the chair at the table.

‘You're not going to leave that there, are you?' It was the same question Katherine had always asked, since they moved into the house years ago. In the week since she had returned to him, he had gradually grown used to her being there, in the body of Tricia – so much that it started to seem natural. But then she would say something, an off-hand remark, like the comment about his jacket on the chair, or a complaint about uncapped toothpaste – and it would so obviously be Katherine's familiar
words coming from Tricia's body – that it was like lightning over a strange volcanic landscape, a sudden flash in a previously dark sky, revealing the utter weirdness of it, the gray ash and charred tree stumps, the unearthliness, which until then had been hidden.

‘Sorry,' he said. He took his jacket from his chair, was about to leave the room. He noticed something. ‘What's that?'

She looked up. ‘What?'

He pointed to her neck. ‘That.'

Under her blouse, he could barely see it. Tricia was wearing the necklace he had given his wife at Big Sur, the fifteen-thousand-dollar diamond and sapphire pendant.

She touched it, pulled it out of her shirt for him to see. ‘It's my anniversary present,' she said. ‘You gave it to me.'

‘Where'd you find it?'

‘Where I left it. In my underwear drawer.' Then: ‘What's wrong with you?'

He shook his head. ‘Nothing.' Another flash of lightning on that weird volcanic scenery. ‘Sometimes it's strange. I know it's you, but it's not you.'

‘But,' Tricia said, ‘it
is
me.'

On Saturday afternoon they decided to go to the Menlo Circus Club, to play tennis and have drinks.

He managed to finish a single set before his knee started to ache. ‘Come on, Gimpy,' Tricia said to him, as they met at mid-court. ‘Your war wound acting up?'

‘A little.'

‘Too bad you're so old.'

‘No kidding.'

‘One more set? I feel great.'

So he played one more set, to entertain his young girlfriend and former wife.

Afterward, soundly beaten, he trudged off to the men's locker room to shower. They agreed to meet on the veranda for drinks in twenty minutes.

In the locker, Timothy limped into the shower, then dried
and walked naked into the wash room. He stood in front of the mirrors above the sink basins, and began to comb his hair. When he looked up he saw Michael Stanton, ex-CEO of the medical device company, currently under indictment by the federal government – but still a member in good standing at the Circus Club – looking at Timothy's reflection.

‘Timothy!' Michael Stanton said. ‘Good to see you out and about. Play some tennis?'

Timothy felt silly, combing his hair, buck naked. ‘Yes.'

‘Who with?'

Like you don't know, Timothy thought. ‘I have a new girlfriend, Michael,' Timothy said gamely.

‘Good for you. I think I saw her walking around. A great-looking lady. Quite a bit younger.'

‘Is she? I hadn't noticed.'

‘Ha! Good for you. Say, why don't we get some drinks together on the veranda – you, me, your girlfriend, my wife.'

Timothy thought, Yes, Wife #2. But of course he could not remember her name.

‘Susan,' Michael continued, as if reading Timothy's mind.

‘That sounds terrific,' Timothy said, even though it did not sound terrific.

‘All right,' Michael Stanton said. ‘See you there in about ten.' Then, looking at the reflection of Timothy's penis in the mirror, he said: ‘And don't forget to put on some pants.'

They sat on the veranda in the late afternoon sun, drinking daiquiris. Wife #2 pulled her chair close to Michael Stanton. The thing that surprised Timothy, as he looked at her, was that she was older than he remembered. Two months ago, before Katherine's death, she seemed scandalously young – the Stantons had been the cause célèbre at the Circus Club, not because of Michael's SEC indictment, his insider trading and possible ten-year jail term, but because of the unceremonious way he had dumped his older wife and traded down to a much younger model.

But now Timothy was shocked to see that Susan was in fact
older than Tricia, that the new Mrs. Stanton had the faintest trace of dark circles under her eyes, that lines were beginning to form at the corners of her mouth. And he realized, proudly, that it was official: he was sitting on the veranda with the most desirable woman that had ever stepped onto Circus Club grounds.

‘So tell us, Timothy,' Wife #2 said. ‘How did you both meet?'

Timothy was about to answer, to say something vague about Tricia being a business associate, but Tricia spoke first. ‘We met at work.' She leaned over the table and said, in a stage whisper, ‘I was his secretary.'

Wife #2 laughed. ‘Isn't that funny? Us too. Well, actually, I was Michael's Investor Relations hack. But same thing.'

Timothy looked over the heads of the Stantons to the other club members sitting on the veranda. He noticed that they were whispering, looking with sidelong glances at Wife #2 and Tricia.

‘The way we fell in love,' Michael Stanton said, ‘is that I was on Cavuto, you know, on CNBC? And they had me waiting for about an hour under the hot lights before my segment. And I must have been melting, I'll tell you. I mean, sweating like you have never seen sweat before. So they were about to go live and Susan here—'

Oh yes
, Timothy thought.
Susan. I must remember that
.

‘—Susan said: ‘You are not putting him on national TV looking like a wet noodle. Either you dry him off or we walk.'' Michael laughed and turned to Susan. ‘Isn't that right?'

‘You're my wet noodle,' she said.

‘Thank you, sweetheart.'

‘What a great story,' Timothy said.

‘Tell you the truth,' Michael Stanton said, ‘I'm glad to see you two together. I felt like a bit of a letch at first, coming here with Susan, since she's so much younger than me. But now it looks like I have some company.'

‘Timothy and I plan to come here all the time,' Tricia said.

‘I don't blame you,' Susan said. ‘Isn't it unbelievable? Sometimes I just wake up and I have to pinch myself. I can't believe my
good luck.' Timothy wasn't certain what she was referring to: the splendid club grounds? Michael Stanton's six-bedroom house in Atherton? His eight-figure bank account?

Tricia said, ‘I'm glad to meet someone my age.'

‘Oh, I don't know about that,' Susan said, flattered.

‘Ladies,' Michael Stanton said, ‘please. You're practically burying me and Timothy. We're still alive and kicking.' And then he said: ‘I'd like to propose a toast.' He raised his daiquiri glass. ‘To second chances.'

‘To second chances,' Tricia said.

‘Hear hear,' Timothy said.

They drank.

They left the Circus Club at four o'clock in the afternoon and headed home. The club was located in a residential neighborhood of Atherton. It was secluded, cut off from the rest of the city by dead ends and one way streets. It was usually deserted; Timothy could drive for blocks without seeing another car.

So it was strange when Timothy pulled out of the club and saw a black Chevy Impala across the street from the club entrance, with its engine idling.

Timothy drove a few blocks, glancing at his rear-view mirror. The black Impala followed closely behind.

He turned left on Valparaiso and looked in the mirror. The Chevy also turned left, and continued tailing him.

‘Strange,' Timothy said.

‘What?' Tricia asked.

‘Nothing, I just …' He slid the BMW into the left lane and made a quick left turn. Like two horses on a carousel, the Impala hugged the BMW, staying close behind.

‘Where are you going?' Tricia asked.

Timothy gunned the motor and raced past the car in front of him. He zoomed out of the residential neighborhood and made a quick right on Santa Cruz, a busy four-lane street.

The Impala sped up and followed.

‘What the hell?' Timothy said. He raced the BMW down Santa Cruz.

Tricia grabbed the dashboard. ‘Timothy, slow down!'

The cars sped down the street.

‘That's it,' Timothy said. He jerked the steering wheel right and pulled into a strip-mall parking lot, then slammed on the brake. The BMW skidded to a stop in front of a tanning salon.

Timothy cut his ignition, threw open his door and jumped from the car. He turned to face the entrance of the parking lot and wait for the Impala.

The Chevy pulled into the parking lot. Its prow was low and wide, like a hammerhead. It rode slowly toward Timothy. Timothy saw the driver, a young man with long, dark, stringy hair, staring at him. The Impala and the long-haired man slowly drove past. The driver turned in his seat to continue looking at Timothy. What he did next was unmistakable: he put his index finger to his neck and slowly pulled it across his throat. He smiled at Timothy.

Then the Impala gunned its engine, its tires screeched, and it sped from the parking lot and disappeared down Santa Cruz.

‘Did you see that?' Timothy called to Tricia. His heart was racing and he could feel that familiar cocktail, of fear laced with anger, course through him. He looked down to see his fists were clenched. ‘Did you see what he did?' He bent down into the BMW to look at Tricia. ‘Did you see that?' he asked again.

Tricia looked pale. ‘Let's go home.'

‘Do you know him?'

‘No,' she said.