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I shook the hand and took the chair across the small circular table from him.

The wine bar—it had no name I knew of—wasn’t very crowded. We sat next to the outer wall, looking down the atrium to the entrance hall three floors below. I chose that particular place because no matter the economic state of the nation, or the world, that mall was always crowded because it catered to the upper classes, who, it seemed, were never at a loss for disposable income.

We were sitting in an isolated corner, so my host spoke clearly and at a decent volume.

“There was a regrettable decision to end your life,” he said as if talking about a small dog that had taken a shit on my rosebushes. “We apologize for that lapse in judgment.”

This answered my first question: Teegs worked for whoever it was who used Gladstone to frame me back in the days when I was cop.

“Whatever happened with that?”

“The agent, who took the unconsidered decision upon himself, has been dealt with. You don’t have to worry about him anymore.”

“What about his accomplices?”

“One has moved on and the other has simply gone away.”

I liked the way Teegs talked. His references could be either vague or rock solid.

“Why would you apologize if it was Convert who took it upon himself to do what was done?” I wasn’t as accomplished a conversationalist as Reggie Teegs.

“If a man represents another man, then the man in charge has to take responsibility. That rule is what Western civilization is based upon.”

“And are you the man in charge?”

Showing his small-toothed grin again, he said, “Heavens no. I am merely a fulcrum, the man who attempts to achieve parity among the parties involved.”

“I could have used somebody like you a long time ago.”

“As I have said, there have been mistakes made.”

“You talk about this shit like you stepped on my toe or brought me a black coffee instead of one with cream.”

“Come on now, Joe,” the Fulcrum said reasonably. “Men have died in this arena. I’m here to offer you recompense.”

“What kind of recompense?”

Teegs reached under the table, pulling out a dull buff-colored leather satchel.

He said, “Four hundred and fifty thousand dollars in untraceable bills.”

If I was still a cop I would have walked away right then. Even if I had just considered myself loyal to the clan that abandoned me I would have said no. As merely a responsible citizen the negation was on the tip of my tongue.

Teegs saw this and said, “Before you make a rash decision, Mr. Oliver, let me say that the people on the other side would feel quite nervous if you were to refuse their offer.”

I could send Aja-Denise to college with money like that. And there were the costs that the next day’s jobs would incur. The most I could hope for was some kind of payoff, be it from a judgment or from the conniving of some lawyer like Stuart Braun.

“Your pain is undeniable,” Teegs said, trying to drive the point home, “but, despite our lapses, you are still alive.”

“If I take that satchel the people you represent will back off?”

“Like the darkness at the break of day.”

“And if I don’t take it?”

“I have no words for that consequence.”

I returned, that evening, to my office, with the pigskin satchel and more money than I’d ever had. I put on a duet by Charlie Parker and Dizzy Gillespie. They played those horns like maniacs finally released from the asylum of humanity.