Taking the Highway

ANDRE TURNED OFF OAKWOOD Boulevard into the sprawling historical museum complex and looked for a parking space for his Raven. Next to him, Bob Masterson swiveled in his seat and gave an amused grunt. “I always forget how far the parking lot is from Greenfield Village itself. I mean, how much lawn would you say they had there? Three, four acres? I guess they have to keep all our nasty modern cars as far as possible from the antiquey-feeling.”

“Antiquey?”

“That’s a word.”

Andre parked the car and got out. “They’re using the lawn today. Or were.”

“Old cars!” Bob marveled. “They found the perfect buffer.”

Suddenly, the private fundraiser inside Greenfield Village made sense, as did the absurdly early start time of six o’clock. Oliver wanted his little party to overlap with the September Spectacular, insuring that his guests had to walk past all the classic cars—more specifically, the Challenger.

The car show was getting ready to wrap it up for the night, but there were still a few lookers, and of course, people who wanted to sell them things. A row of snack trucks blasted the area with the aroma of cotton candy and popcorn, as whiny kids tried to extort some of the treats from their frazzled parents.

Andre wondered how anyone could stand having all those sticky fingers near the priceless antiques. The cars—perhaps thirty of them—were on platforms only a few centimeters off the ground, with nothing but a flimsy awning over each one and a single guard per car.

Bob stood near a hundred-year-old Chevy with tail fins. The man next to it on the dais wore an aqua and white argyle sweater the same shade as the car, along with white pants and an aqua touring cap. “Check it out,” Bob said. “The owners match the vehicles. Car nuts are a different breed.”

Andre scanned the area, trying to see under as many overhead tarps as possible. “Those aren’t the owners,” he told Bob. “They’re private security.”

Bob’s eyebrows shot up. “They don’t look dangerous enough to stop anyone.”

Andre pointed to eyedots in the corners of each platform. “Cameras.”

Bob waved his hand in front of his nose. “I’m glad cars don’t smell like this anymore. Can we go in now?”

“Just a second.” He recognized the Challenger under a tent in the exact center of the display and led Bob over to it. The red finish gleamed, even in the dim light under the awning. Maybe Oliver came out and dusted it every night. Andre gave a curt nod to the security guard, who was dressed in jeans and a denim jacket. He looked capable enough.

“Now that’s a ride,” Bob said. He caught sight of the plaque that was bolted into the low dais and did a double take. “Is that—Are you—Oh.”

Andre read the plaque. “On loan from the personal collection of Oliver LaCroix. 2008 Dodge Challenger, made by the Chrysler Corporation. Restored in the LaCroix family garage.” Very clever of Oliver to phrase it that way. As if he’d done the restoration himself, instead of standing by with tools while Dad fabricated parts and changed out fluids. They used to compare hands at the end of a day in the garage—Dad’s black with grease, Andre’s a muddy brown, and Oliver’s as white as angel’s wings.

He turned away, hand in his pocket, worrying the key there. Technically, it was Oliver’s car. Dad had always said they were supposed to share it, but the title was in Oliver’s name. A “temporary measure” that Oliver had never bothered to correct. It wasn’t that Andre didn’t want to show the car. The Challenger was a work of art, and like anything beautiful, it should be displayed and enjoyed. He just wished Oliver was half as interested in sharing the car with his brother as he was in sharing it with the world.

They walked to the Greenfield Village entrance, past iron gates and through a brick archway. Each step seemed to move them back in time. A costumed doorman waited at the other side of the archway, completing the illusion.

“We were expecting you over an hour ago.” The doorman reeked of social disapproval rather than physical menace, but Andre didn’t doubt the man’s power. If the doorman said you weren’t getting in to Greenfield Village today, then you weren’t getting in. “The other fourths are already here,” he said.

Andre glanced at Bob, who had decided to change into his brown suit at the last minute, insisting they go clear out to Livonia to get it from his storage locker.

Bob shrugged. “We’re fashionably late.”

“Fashionably late is for donors.” The doorman tugged at his collar, then bent and pulled on the tight pants cuffs below his knees. The costume seemed to irritate him all over. He stabbed a finger at his guest list. “It says Andre LaCroix. Not Andre LaCroix and guest.”

Bob nudged his elbow. “And that, my friend, is why you paid me in advance.”

“So we’ll leave,” Andre told the doorman. “You can tell my brother that you were the one to kick me out. He might not mind. Have a nice night.”

The doorman sighed a long-suffering sigh and stepped aside to let them pass. “Enjoy your evening, Mr. LaCroix.”

Bob followed him through the brick archway. “Good thing there’s always room for charming single men.”

Andre certainly planned on being charming tonight—schmooze the money people, dance with the ugly women, shun all tech, and always, always, talk up his brother. He glanced over at his peace offering. Bob was snapping his fingers along to the ragtime music wafting from the far end of the green. He already fit right in.

They rambled down a paved lane that led past the glassblower, the tinworks, and a stable. Greenfield Village was a mockup of a real 1890’s town, complete with a schoolhouse, a church, and a dozen shops pretending to sell things like hats and bicycles. Costumed actors and period vehicles completed the illusion. Tonight, with the buildings dark and silent, it was harder to believe in the time-travel fantasy.

“Drinks for phones! Check your phones, your datapads, your handhelds. Keep it real, people. Keep it real. Drinks for phones!”

They were stopped at the edge of the green by a thickset man in full security regalia who was stowing hand-held devices into a row of lockable steamer trunks. Andre recognized him as a first or second-year patrolman, but he couldn’t put a name to the face. Next to him stood a young woman, wearing a long dress with extra padding in the butt and sleeves that puffed over her arms. A small straw hat perched on her head. She offered a silver tray full of embossed tickets.

The cop continued his carnival barking. “Check your phones, your datapads, your handhelds. Keep it real!”

“Why would anyone give up his phone?” Andre asked.

“Because, it’s a cash bar, but if you agree to turn in your tech for the night, you get a coupon for free drinks.”

“I’m game!” Bob slapped his tiny datapad into the security guard’s oversized hand. The cop wrapped a numbered rubber band around the pad and gave Bob its twin. The young woman handed him a drink ticket. Bob disappeared into the party.

Andre mimed shooting himself in the head. “Sorry.”

The gesture was a common one among Detroit police and the security guard got it at once. “Cop?”

“Yeah.”

The guard lowered his voice. “You got a datapad or anything you can turn in? I won’t tell about the implant.”

“Nah, I wouldn’t want you to get fired on my account.”

The security guard shook his massive head. “Not going to happen. I look good out here. Make people feel like their phones are safe.” He leaned in. “This is a bullshit gig. But the pay is good.”

“Better than what I have.” At the guard’s look of confusion, he added, “I have an even more bullshit gig, and it doesn’t pay at all.” He declined a drink ticket and went through the gap in the sawhorses.

The sprawling village green easily contained the party guests, which Andre estimated at about two hundred, not counting staff. The costumed servers looked every bit late-nineteenth century, as if Henry Ford himself would make an appearance any moment. At the far end of the green, musicians finished their ragtime number and started a waltz.

The guests around him, glowing in the soft flicker from artfully-placed gaslights, marveled at the quaintness of it all. So picturesque. So refreshingly honest. Some even claimed that the air smelled authentic. Andre tried to detect a whiff of freshly-cut hay or perhaps some manure, but all he smelled was perfumed guests and fried finger foods. The lawn under his feet had benefited from some very modern chemical fertilizers, and Andre could bet that Henry Ford never drank cosmopolitans and guevaras.

He scanned the crowd, looking for anyone who wanted to give Oliver a lot of money, not that he could imagine what that looked like. The party guests seemed like his typical fourthing customers writ large. Comfortable incomes, but they worked for their money. He supposed the trust fund crowd attended a different sort of fundraiser. More fun to buy a senator or a governor than a city councilman.

Andre would do his job, mingle on command, but he needed a drink first, even if he had to pay for it. He maneuvered through the crowd toward the bar.

“Ka-donk.” A nudge from behind made Andre take a quick step forward to catch himself. He whirled to see his nephew grinning at him. He thought a twenty year old would be above the ka-donk game, but Nikhil still wanted to keep score. “I’m at least five ahead.”

“Doesn’t count,” Andre said. “I saw it coming.”

“You did not.”

“I see all of yours coming. I know everything you’re going to do.”

“Yeah? What am I going to do right now?”

Andre pursed his lips and took in Nikhil’s new suit, his fresh haircut, the way he’d combed the dark waves away from his face in imitation of his only uncle. He still slumped when he stood and those sideburns had to go, but he’d pass. Hell, he’d probably gotten rides already. “You’re about to show me your new fourthing badge.”

“Damn!” Nikhil brought his hands to his face and groaned.

Andre took the opportunity to give him a shoulder jab. “And ka-donk, too.” He held out his hand. “Let’s see it.”

Nikhil turned his shoulder away and thrust his hand into his pocket. “I don’t want to show you, now.”

“Yes, you do. You’ve already got your hand on it.”

“It’s spooky how you do that.” Nikhil pulled out a round, white badge. “Does it look okay? I mean, it doesn’t look . . .”

“It looks great.” Andre held his own badge in the other hand. The new badge’s registry number was six digits long. His own had five. He’d already become an old-timer.

Of course, there had been fourths longer than there had been licenses, but not much more. At first, working fourths had fought the license fee as a tax on what used to be free. But they’d bowed to the inevitable as drivers overwhelmingly preferred licensed fourths. By the time Andre had entered the profession, licenses were the norm. The fee wasn’t outrageous considering what you got. Or rather, what drivers got. A licensed fourth had no arrest record, a valid multi-card, and clear drug tests. Fourths couldn’t guarantee that they’d be entertaining, but at least they could guarantee they weren’t criminals.

Andre handed the badge back. “How’s it going so far?”

Nikhil pocketed his badge with a shrug. “It’s going. I mean, it’s fine. Slow start, you know, but you can’t always get . . .” His eyes slid to the side. “Oh, hey, there’s Topher Price-Powell. You have to meet this guy.”

Andre turned, expecting one of Oliver’s people—someone either stiff with entitlement or anxiously wondering how to buy some. Instead, Nikhil pointed out a young man, perhaps one of his college friends. Andre’s first flash was that Topher must be another fourth, someone getting rides on the strength of his Hollywood pretty boy looks. But looks were not enough, and two more seconds of observation told him that Topher didn’t even understand the obvious social clues, much less the subtle ones.

Topher Price-Powell stood with two women in their thirties, both wearing the quiet clothing and loud jewelry of the securely upper-middle class. They probably had young children at home, and almost certainly had been discussing them before Topher had started holding court. He talked, they listened. Or, pretended to listen. The tilt of their bodies, ever-so-slightly away from him, the shared glances between them, said it all. Andre felt a twinge of pity for Topher. He couldn’t see that the women were humoring him, far more interested in his pouty lips and strong shoulders and the way he flipped his bangs off his forehead than anything he had to say. The pity was followed immediately by a desire to pin Topher’s mouth closed and hold his eyes open. The guy needed to look, to listen, but most of all, to shut up, or he’d never get anywhere with women.

Nikhil was already ahead of him, leading him through the crowd. “Topher! Hey!” He caught Topher in a full-arm handshake then immediately turned to Andre. “This is my Uncle Andre.”

“A pleasure.” Andre held out a hand.

Instead of shaking, Topher thrust a small booklet at him. Andre slid it into his pocket without reading it. He caught Topher’s eye and smiled at the women, but Topher did not introduce them. Did he even know their names?

“I’ll get us some drinks,” Nikhil said.

“I’ll go with you!” the women chorused, then giggled. Topher watched them go, then stuck his hands in his pockets and regarded Andre.

“So you’ve known Nikhil a long time?” Andre asked.

“We hang out.”

“And you’re a fourth as well?”

“No. Well, yes. Licensed, but not practicing. I probably won’t renew after this year.”

“Ah.” Andre translated. It’s harder than it looks and I suck at it.

“Right now I’m the head of the Council for Economic Justice.”

“Nikhil told me about that. Some kind of lobbying group?”

“Grassroots organizing,” Topher corrected him. “Right now we’re protesting the new wall in Dearborn. Do you know how much that cost to build? The outer communities have plenty of money. They could use some of it to help the disincorporated residents, but they’d rather spend it keeping those people out. What kind of economic miracle do we have if it’s created a permanent underclass?”

“The economic miracle is fine with me, thanks. You’re too young to remember, but when I was a kid things were just starting to—”

“I’m old enough,” Topher cut in. “You can spare me the lecture.”

Andre noticed Bob Masterson circling in, drinking a long-necked beer, squinting one eye and quirking his lips. If something was about to happen, it figured that Bob would both notice and land in the middle of it.

Sure enough, Bob stepped forward and held out his hand. “Do you have any more of those pamphlets?”

“Maybe.” Topher looked him up and down. “Are you going to read it?”

“Not if you don’t give me one.”

Topher took a glossy pamphlet out of his inside suitcoat pocket and silently handed it over.

Bob studied it at arm’s length. “Nice looking document. Where did you get it printed?”

“Sabo’s.”

“You get a better deal at Office Spot.” He focused on the paper. “The Council for Economic Justice. Cee Eee Jay. Doesn’t make a very good acronym. Do you pronounce that ‘seg’ or ‘keg?’“

Topher glared at him like a teacher shushing a student. “We just call it the C.E.J.”

Bob handed the pamphlet back. “Have you been to Dearborn? Have you seen that wall? It’s got murals on both sides, one of them painted by John Tebeau.”

“Which side is Tebeau’s mural on?”

“Ours, of course.”

“Ours!” Topher crowed. “Ours.”

“That’s right. The zoners are sending their kids to our schools, polluting our waterways, and dragging down property values on the borders. The whole place smells.” Bob’s eyes slid sideways to two middle-aged women who were now openly listening. “They benefit from every one of our civic improvements, without paying a penny in taxes.”

The faintest eyebrow twitch made Andre wonder if Bob believed what he was saying. Bob was a good fourth. Of course he would say what the majority of the people at the party wanted to hear. Whether he agreed with it or saw things for what they really were was beside the point.

“Excuse me,” Topher said. “Excuse me! Just because someone lives in the disincorporated zone doesn’t mean you can treat them like a serf.”

“I don’t treat them like anything,” Bob said.

Topher scoffed. “You want a cheap maid or a gardener and the rest of the time, you don’t want them to exist.”

“No one makes people live in the zone.”

“Where else are you going to live on a maid’s salary?”

“I’m NFA. I live anywhere I want. But we’re not talking about me. Where do you live, Mr. Topher Price-Powell, head of the Cee Eee Jay? Not in the zone, I’ll bet.”

Topher rounded on him, arms and shoulders taut. “You have no idea who I am.”

Andre held his breath as Bob and Topher stared puffed and postured. He exhaled. Bob was a fourth. Topher was Nikhil’s friend. Of course, they would behave themselves, wouldn’t they?

“Let me guess,” Bob said. “You pay three times the going rate so your gardener can live Downriver.”

“Yes, in fact I do.” Topher regarded him smugly, as if he’d scored a liberal credibility point.

“So you take care of the zoners by denying them work.”

“At least I’m a contributing citizen.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“No real job. No place to live. That’s the definition of a bum.”

“And you’re the definition of a pretentious jerk.” Bob backed onto one foot. Andre noticed his other foot pointed forward, hands at the ready.

Topher was practically standing on his toes, trying to get a height advantage, his face losing color the angrier he got. Bob stared into his eyes, beginning the intimate dance of violence. Andre automatically tensed, ready to get between them if things escalated too quickly.

He glanced at the gathering crowd. On the other hand, the fourths were here for show. They were for spectacle. What better spectacle than to let Bob kick Topher’s ass? And he was fairly sure that was the way it was going to go. There was too much untutored arrogance in Topher and the more Andre thought about it, the harder it was to suppress his desire to see that arrogance shattered. Why not let them have at it?

Andre caught purposeful movement out of the corner of his eye. A small, dark presence moved behind Topher and grabbed his ear. Sofia Gao. Before Andre could even register his shock, she had used Topher’s ear to pull him backward and also spun him a hundred and eighty degrees, putting herself between the two men and leaving Topher with his back to Bob. She pointed a menacing finger and Bob immediately raised both palms in surrender. She pointed to the side and Bob melted into the crowd, leaving her to deal with Topher, who was dancing in place and swatting at her hand.

“Ow, ow, ow. Quit it, lady!”

“I am going to let go of your ear, and you are going to calm down, got it?”

“Yes, yes.”

She released him, but stood in a martial arts stance—bent knees, straight back, and hands at face level. Her voice was soft but commanding. “Sorry about that. We’re all friends here, but you need to stay away from that guy.”

Andre stepped between Topher and Sofia. He turned his back on Sofia, faced Topher, and planted himself. He wasn’t afraid of a punk like Topher, but there was something about the younger man. Not dangerous so much as calculating, like he’d sized up the odds and already won. The brash assurance seemed to have no source, making it more disturbing. Andre watched Topher—his eyes for intention, his hands for weapons.

Topher dropped his hand from his ear and spoke past Andre, to Sofia. “Whatever you say, bitch. I’m going to stay away from you too.”

“Can I get you some ice for your ear?” Sofia asked.

“I’ll get it myself.” Topher stumbled toward the bar.

Sofia turned to Andre. “Why didn’t you stop that?”

“Stop what?”

“The fight.”

“It was more of a debate. They weren’t bothering anyone but each other.”

“It was two seconds away from becoming physical. You couldn’t see that?”

Andre took in Sofia’s black pants, shirt and blazer—tasteful enough for an evening out, but probably hiding some serious hardware. “What are you even doing here?”

“Working. When Oliver LaCroix hired me for private security, I should have known you two were related. Why didn’t he just ask you?”

“He did.”

Sofia looked him up and down. “Oh, that is . . .” She bit her bottom lip. “I’d heard that some fourths were here, but I never imagined . . .”

Andre smoothed the lapels of the suit he’d been wearing since that morning, wishing he’d had the luxury of changing twice like Bob had. “So tell me, how does the head of an important task force have time for my brother’s stupid party?”

“Oliver set this up months ago. I keep my commitments.”

Andre threw a thumb toward the place where Topher and Bob had squared off. “Anyway, I thought it was entertaining. What’s more fun at an uptight shindig than a good bar brawl?”

“The guests aren’t here for that kind of entertainment.”

Andre craned his neck to scan the crowd. How much of a disturbance had Topher and Bob made? People seemed happy in their own bubbles of conversation, but a party was nothing but talk, and things always rippled back to the host. Sooner or later, Oliver would hear something. He focused on Sofia. “Um, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t mention this to my brother.”

Sofia put her hands on her hips. “Who do you think sent me over here to break it up? And he wants to talk to you.”

“About what?”

“Does it matter?”

“No.” He needed to be seen with Oliver. Like Nikhil, Andre was here as window dressing. Look at my handsome son. Look at my eligible bachelor brother. Andre sighed. “Where is he?”

“Come with me.” She grabbed his wrist and pulled him through the crowd. Fourth, cop, and brother battled inside him, making him second-guess all his responses. He found the gentle pressure of her fingertips on his pulse points much more enjoyable than a pinch on the ear, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to go wherever she was taking him.

The crowd parted at a clearing near the bar, revealing Oliver holding a clear, fizzy drink and looking pissed. “Good,” he said to Sofia. He jerked his head to the side. “I need you to go shore up the sawhorses on the east side. People keep ducking under them to walk by the pond.”

Sofia gave a crisp nod and walked off. Oliver watched her go. “Now there is a solid eighty-nine.”

“That’s it, huh?”

Oliver swirled the ice in his glass. “Close, but not close enough. If she’s not at least ninety percent, she’s not for me. I once dated an eighty-four point six, but that was an exception.”

“I’m sure she felt lucky to have you.”

“Not lucky enough, kid. That was the problem.”

Andre remembered a time when he’d anxiously waited for Oliver to rate his girlfriends. He wanted them to score high, but not too high. Something he could respect, but not so good that they’d attract the attention of his one-decade-more-sophisticated brother. He ran his hand over the back of his collar and watched Sofia gently herding people onto the green.

What score would he give her? He knew Oliver’s scale was always weighed toward the physical, but for Andre, it was more a question of enthusiasm. How would the physical, the mental, and the spirit of adventure mix in the sheets? Pretty high, he imagined. Higher than eighty-nine. Of course, he was crazy to even consider Sofia. Nominally his boss, pushy as hell, and as by-the-book as he could imagine. Not to mention the fact that she thought him an arrogant a*shole.

None of those things would bother his brother. He watched Oliver take a healthy gulp of his drink, his eyes on Sofia’s ass. It would be so easy to bump his arm, call it an accident, run to the bar to grab handfuls of napkins and knock Oliver around some more while pretending to clean him up. That thought was followed by a rush of guilt. He was supposed to be making Oliver look good, and he was supposed to do that by having a good time himself.

Ordinarily, he liked parties. He liked meeting new people, seeing fresh perspectives, learning new things. But this entire event left him drained. The energy of the place was all wrong. Maybe having to pay a steep admission fee perverted the whole idea of a party, and nobody was really having any fun.

“You know what’s wrong with this picture?” Oliver asked. “Your hands are empty. You need a drink.”

Andre patted his pockets. “I’m short of cash.”

“Like I’m going to charge you.”

He held up his datapad and wagged it in front of his brother. “Free drinks aren’t worth going blind and deaf.”

Oliver patted his own pockets and came up with a wad of silver tickets. He handed one to Andre. “You’re my brother. You can do what you want.”

Andre weighed the datapad in his pocket against the heavy, embossed tickets. Losing his frustration in the bottom of a bottle—especially a bottle that his brother had to pay for—wouldn’t make him feel like less of a lackey, but it might make him feel less like punching Oliver on the nose. He reached for the ticket.

Oliver snatched it away at the last second. “And tell your friend to quit antagonizing my guests.”

For a moment, Andre wondered how Oliver knew that Bob was his friend. But it made sense. Oliver had personally invited everyone here, so he’d know them, at least by sight. Staff wore those hundred-fifty-year-old costumes, making Bob stand out, and not in a good way.

“It’s a political fundraiser,” Andre said. “He was talking politics. Why’d you let Nikhil bring Price-Powell anyway?”

“I invited him. He’s a donor.” Oliver waved away Andre’s skeptical look. “He’s a press-conference radical. He complains a lot, but at the end of the day, he knows what money can buy.”

“What he doesn’t know is when to close his mouth. Topher’s the one antagonizing your guests. Bob Masterson is backing you a hundred percent, and he doesn’t even know you. He picked up the general vibe and went with it. I’m telling you, this guy is good. Any minute now he’s going to start in against datapads.”

Oliver’s eyes widened. “Jesus Christ.”

“No, it’s true. He’ll shit all over them. I fronted him three hundred bucks. Told him you were good for it. Believe me, this guy returns full value on investment.”

Oliver was looking past him. “I don’t believe it.”

“What?” Andre whipped his head around, but Oliver was already charging through the crowd. Andre followed blindly through the dim center of the green where the gaslights did not quite penetrate. As they got farther from the band, he started to make out two distinct voices—Topher and Bob. The crowd had formed a ring around them in the classic schoolyard way.

Topher’s voice rose above the crowd. “As if a fart-rammer like you would dare to set one foot in the disincorporated zone.”

With great dignity, Bob looked down at Topher and proclaimed, “You, sir, are a piss-diddling muff nugget.”

The spectators erupted in delighted, nervous laughter. Topher’s face darkened with embarrassed blood and his voice became a growl. “You stupid faggot.”

“What did you call me?”

“You heard me.”

Andre rushed forward, ready to step in front of the first swinging fist, but was stopped by Oliver’s hand digging into his shoulder.

Oliver pulled him close and hissed into his ear. “Solve this. Now.” He let go and walked away. He shook hands, smiled, held out his arms, trying to block the embarrassing scene with his body.

Andre looked around for Sofia, or the patrolman who guarded the door, since this was what they’d been hired for. But Oliver seemed to expect more of the finesse of a fourth than the directness of a cop.

That might be what Oliver wanted, but that wasn’t what he was going to get. Andre was sick and tired of playing politician, with his brother or anyone else. Oliver wanted it solved? Fine. The quickest way was to remove the problem. Donor or not, Topher Price-Powell was the problem.

Andre charged into the center of the circle and saw the kind of blunt posturing that men do right before they slug one another. Bob’s orientation didn’t matter in the least, here. A gay man was still a man. In this case, a very red-faced, very heavy-breathing man who was not backing down despite Topher’s constant shoving of his shoulder. Andre had to be quick. With all these people watching and evaluating, Bob and Topher could lock horns faster than he could step between them.

“Let’s go,” Topher said. “Come on. Me and you. Right now. Let’s go.”

“You want to do this?” Bob asked, smacking Topher’s arm aside. “Do you really want to do this?”

“No,” Andre said firmly. “He does not.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Fade,” Andre told Bob. “Mr. Price-Powell and I are going for a walk.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Topher said. “F*ck you, Un-cle An-dre.”

A soft Ohhh worked through the crowd. If Andre ended this now, it would be a funny story for the guests to tell later. Five seconds more and it would be an ugly embarrassment.

Bob hadn’t moved, and Andre realized that he couldn’t. To run away now would be to concede the fight. Neither man would leave unless forced to.

“You’re right,” he said to Topher. “You have had too much to drink.” He took one quick step to the side, directly behind Topher. He snaked a hand under Topher’s armpit, up the back of his neck, and grabbed a fist full of hair. From the front, it looked like he was supporting Topher like a buddy, preventing him from falling. Andre was taller, which meant all he had to do was stand straight to pull Topher’s shoulder and his hair. If he leaned forward, the smallest push would send Topher to the ground. His foot, slightly angled and directly next to Topher’s, would trip him, and he was in position to kick Topher’s feet out from under him if he had to.

A trained fighter might be able to get out of the hold, twist and roll, or land a punch, but Topher was not a trained fighter. He had to keep moving in the direction that Andre guided him—right to the front gates.

They moved through the crowd and off the green, down the road past the mercifully silent carousel and the dark historic buildings. Topher cursed him every step of the way.

“Uncle Andre!” Nikhil trailed along behind them. “Uncle Andre, you’re causing a scene.”

Andre stopped next to the cobbler shop and looked at the empty main street. “Scene’s over.”

“Quit it, just let him go.”

“Let me go!” Topher echoed.

“No choice,” Andre told Nikhil. “I have to kick him out.”

They’d reached the brick archway where the foppish doorman still waited. Andre untangled himself from Topher, giving him a little shove. “Mr. Price-Powell is leaving,” he told the doorman. “He won’t be back.”

Topher straightened up and stared at Andre with a mixture of disbelief and icy hate. “Fine. I’m out of here. Nikhil, stay if you want.” He turned and walked through the arch.

Nikhil started to follow and Andre caught his sleeve, holding him back. “You’d do that to your dad? I mean, politics is politics, but family is—”

“Also politics,” Nikhil said. “At least in some families.”

Topher stopped in the archway and called back to Nikhil. “Are you coming or not?”

Andre jerked his head in that direction. “That guy worth it?”

Nikhil shook off Andre’s hand. “Topher isn’t faked. He’s worth ten of my dad.”

Andre watched him go, Topher gesturing wildly, Nikhil trailing along. Any other day, he’d be ready to agree with his nephew about his brother’s shortcomings, but watching Nikhil follow Topher Price-Powell into the night left Andre feeling cold with disappointment. Betrayed.

He turned back to the party and hadn’t gone ten steps before he saw Oliver marching toward him, still carrying his drink in one hand, a brightly-lit datapad in the other.

“What did you do?” Oliver demanded.

“Me? I did exactly what you asked.”

“You removed my son from the party?”

“No,” Andre said, drawing out the syllable. “I got rid of the a*shole.”

“My son went with that a*shole.”

“You wanted me to leave the a*shole at the party?”

“I wanted you to remove the a*shole you brought.”

“Bob?”

“Yes!” Oliver exploded. “Take care of your own a*shole!”

“I was trying to take care of you!”

“So now I’m the a*shole?”

Andre pointed to Oliver’s blinking datapad. “You’ll use all the tech you want out here, but heaven forbid you touch it in front of one of your big contributors. Wouldn’t want them to know who you really are.”

Oliver turned his back to Andre, toward his party. He pointed his entire arm. “Who I am at that party is who I really am.”

Andre circled in front of him. “What, a hypocrite?”

“F*ck you, little brother. You think you know me? You think you know what I’m really like? You don’t know anything.”

“I know enough. A*shole doesn’t begin to cover it. Jesus, Oliver, even your own kid thinks you’re so full of bullshit you grow sunflowers out of your butt.”

“You’re the kid! All I do is take care of you.” Oliver fumbled in his pocket and alarms rushed through Andre’s body. All of his police training told him to watch hands. Watch where they go. Careful of pockets. He could be reaching for anything.

But Oliver simply pulled out the most powerful weapon he had—his wallet. He opened it and peeled off three bills. “Here’s your three hundred. No, make it four.”

“Forget it, old man. I’m not taking your money.” Four bills. That’s all Oliver thought a brother was worth. Worse, before the end of the night, Andre would probably accept it.

Oliver looked over Andre’s shoulder and snapped his fingers. “Ah, finally, there’s that eighty-nine. Please escort my brother out of here.” He gestured for the doorman. “Fred, you help.”

“I got this,” Sofia said from behind him.

Andre kept his eyes on his brother. “Stay out of this, Sofia.”

“I can’t.”

Andre’s hands were empty. Nothing to throw, nothing to break. So, it would have to be hand-to-hand. Oliver was a soft target. He’d be on the ground in no time.

Sofia stepped into his line of vision. He tried to duck around her but she moved with him. “Just give me one minute, Andre. Just step outside with me for one minute and we’ll get some air.” She took a step closer, then another, still speaking in a soft, steady tone. How did she sound so calm when the very air around them seemed tinted with rage? “Give me sixty seconds,” she said. “After that, if you want to come back and hit your brother, I won’t stop you.”

“No one’s hitting anyone!” Oliver yelled.

“Please.” Sofia ignored Oliver, holding Andre’s eyes with her own small black ones. “Step outside with me right now.” She was speaking to him. Only to him. Her voice was cool water, a slow-moving stream. He could listen to this voice.

“One minute,” he said.

“That’s all I’m asking.”

“Then he’s dead.”

“Your choice.”

Andre shook his head, trying to clear it. “One single minute.”

“I’m done for the night.” She took his arm. “Let’s go.”