“You’re friends with Trevor Llewellyn,” the Chief said. “Right? You guys do stuff together all the time.”

“That’s not really the same thing,” Eddie said. And it wasn’t. Eddie and Trevor got along great, they had fun together, they occasionally had what Eddie thought of as “real” conversations, but almost always these conversations concerned their wives or children. There was no lasting bond between Eddie and Trevor. Eddie hadn’t seen Trevor since dinner a couple of weeks earlier, and it was no big deal to Eddie, just as Eddie was sure it was no big deal to Trevor. Trevor was flying his planes, going about his daily business, just as Eddie was. “Trevor and I hang out, drink, smoke cigars. But honestly, that friendship is primarily powered by our wives. I would say the friendship you had with Greg was probably pretty rare.”

“I’ll agree with that,” the Chief said. “Where did you grow up, Eddie?”

“New Bedford,” Eddie said. “Downtown.”

“Mean streets,” the Chief said. “At least, as I understand it.”

“I guess so,” Eddie said. “My parents did the best they could, then my old man died of emphysema when I was fourteen, then my mother three years later, of lung cancer. They both smoked like chimneys, and Barbie, too. I never touched cigarettes because I ran track.”

“That’s right,” the Chief said.

“Running kept me out of trouble,” Eddie said. “I still hold the Commonwealth record for the four hundred.”

“You don’t say!” The Chief ordered another drink, and Eddie felt pleased by this. It was as if the three hundred other people in the bar had ceased to exist. He was hanging out and drinking and engaging in meaningful conversation with the chief of police. Maybe because Eddie had grown up in New Bedford, or maybe because Eddie’s business had, for so many years, seemed so easy as to be illegal, or maybe because Eddie’s conscience was aching, or maybe because he, Eddie, just like everyone else in the world, needed authentic human connection, his present circumstances seemed monumental.

“Would you like to order a couple dozen littlenecks?” Eddie asked. “I know I’m not Greg MacAvoy, but I’m happy to help you eat them.”

“Yes,” the chief said. “I’d like that. I’d like that very much.”

Eddie flagged Eliza and ordered up the clams.

“Thank you,” the Chief said. “You’re a good guy, Eddie. A really good guy.”

At five o’clock, Eddie walked out of Cru feeling like a changed man—upright, clean, worthy, respectable. The Chief had left fifteen minutes earlier to get home to his wife and the MacAvoy twins, Chloe and Finn, whom he was now raising. The Chief had actually hugged Eddie good-bye and pounded him on the back, and they had exchanged cell-phone numbers, the Chief giving Eddie his supersecret number, which he was sure to answer any time of the day or night.

“If you ever need a hand or want to grab a drink,” the Chief said, “just call me.”

“I’ll do that,” Eddie said, and then he laughed. Too loudly? Too eagerly? The four vodka martinis had him by the shoulders; the Chief had had just as many drinks as Eddie, if not more, but he was a man who was unaffected by alcohol.

“I’ll call you sometime to go fishing,” the Chief said. “I bought a boat last year, a twenty-six-foot Whaler with a brand new two-fifty. Do you like to fish?”

“I love to fish,” Eddie said, although this was a lie. He hated to fish. It was too much sit-around-and-wait for Eddie; he would rather be in the office making money. But if the Chief wanted to go fishing, Eddie would go fishing. Trevor loved to fish and had belonged to the Anglers’ Club since he was eighteen. It occurred to Eddie that Trevor might be a better choice as a friend for the Chief—but now Eddie was starting to sound like Grace.

“Great,” the Chief said. “Take care, and enjoy the rest of your weekend.”

“Okay, Chief,” he said. He felt sorrowful at the Chief’s departure. “I would definitely like to go fishing. Call me.”

The Chief pointed at Eddie in a way that could have meant anything, and then he sliced his way through the intoxicated crowd, who all stepped aside for him because, even if they didn’t know he was the police chief, they sensed his authority.

Now, out on the Straight Wharf by himself, Eddie saw Figawians stumbling and swaying, he saw potential fistfights brewing, he saw women losing their shoes and their hair ties and control of their bra straps. Walking back past the Straight Wharf Restaurant, Eddie spied the girl in the white strapless sundress sitting on the railing, drinking a Corona. She had puked and rallied. Good for her.

She saw him staring and waved at him. He walked quickly away. He was not going to lose this glow of virtue by flirting with someone half his age.

But he was going to lose the glow of virtue—yes, he was. He thought of the paper bag full of cash. He thought about how everyone on the staff at the Great Harbor Yacht Club now knew Eddie was in financial trouble. Soon, other members would hear the rumor, and then there would be blood in the water. Glenn Daley, Eddie’s archenemy, belonged to Great Harbor.

He needed to sell a house.

But until then, he had the girls.

MADELINE

Angie called, screaming. At first, Madeline thought it was angry screaming, but then she realized it was happy, joyful, excited screaming.

“I love it!” she said. “I absolutely fucking love it!”