When Mac got back Meyer walked from the office out upon the dock. The warehouse, in past years a meat packing depot, was huge, dark, thickwalled with brick of various blood shades. It was on North Grand, abutted to the railroad bridge cutting across the river just north of the DeSiard street bridge. Something of a public storage warehouse, where Meyer rented space and ran a courier/delivery service.

A section of the rear wall sat perilously close to a  river bank cave-in, though you couldn't tell unless you walked down around back, an uninviting prospect due to the mud and vines and trash. Mac had a chalk line drawn on the concrete to remind himself to stay away from that area. The space inside was largely empty, cold, with metal sprinklers dangling like overhanging vines in the black forest.

The place, to Mac, was scary.

Meyer waited for Mac to get out of the Fury. Meyer's office consisted of a white frame enclosure at the end of the dock. Cooper, sliding a few boxes randomly in order to appear something close to busy, noted the rarity of Meyer actually coming outside. "Armageddon, Mac-boy." Comical inverted face.

"You got a call." In exaggerated confusion Mac looked around for whoever Meyer might be talking to. "Said it was your brother, for you to call him at his office." The two stock boys on the dock cast eyes upon Mac as if surprised by the notion of such an entity.

"Can't you come over now?" "I got another run to make. Not until after six, at least." "Shit." "I'll come over to your house." "Hell no. Chandra's---she'll be there. Meet me at a bar. Ledbetter's. Six thirty. No. Six thirty-five."

Mac was dressed wrong. His brother took him to an ill-lit booth.

By thoroughly arcane and baffling routes his brother explained why he wanted to use Mac's name instead of his own for participation in the venture. It was imperative none of this leak out to Chandra. "I'll cut you in for three per cent. If it's not dry--of my share I mean. If it is, you won't have to pay out a thing. But it won't be dry. There's no way, son. I know this guy with Schlumberger, and they logged not one hundred yards away. I'm telling you. It's right there on this spot we're just happening to option. Wink, wink."

Mac agreed in a vague but enthusiastic way. John was in a hurry. He paid for the drafts immediately.

"Hey, wait--have you seen Connie?"

John's look was flat, evasive.

"You know where she's living now?"

"Mac--she'd shit if she saw you--us. Don't bug her."

He wouldn't look at Mac. Mac stopped short of asking why. John slid out of the booth.

Mac followed him to the Volvo. "You know where she lives, don't you."

"You're not going to find out--don't worry." A reprisal of some archaic backyard play. John closed the door harshly. He looked at Mac: sorry, ol'bud.

Mac stood impassive several moments, then motioned for him to roll the window down.

"Hey--you think you're really going to use my name? Somebody'll call, ask me stuff?"