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That’s my trade, after all. I’m a teller of stories. This one happened in 1653, when England was going through a hell of a bad time.” Tinsley leaned in to him and listened. “Churches were being torn down and destroyed. But in one place, a place called Staunton Harold, a man built a church. I’ve been there. I’ve seen the church, prayed there. There’s a plaque on the wall. It says, ‘In the year 1653, when throughout the nation all things sacred were either demolished or profaned, this church was built by Sir Robert Shirley, whose singular praise it is to have done the best of things in the worst of times, and to have hoped in the most calamitous.’”
    If you’re trying to picture this, imagine a sort of hammy, B-grade character actor pretending to be a solemn preacher. That was part of Preston’s genius. I saw that now. He was an actor, and he’d written a pretty good role for himself. I wondered which church newsletter or book of anecdotes for ministers he’d gotten this little story from, but I gave him credit—it was good material.
    Preston stopped, and Tinsley stopped next to him.
    “To do the best of things in the worst of times, and to hope in the most calamitous. That’s why I write.”
    The TV cut to an anchor in New York. She paused for an appropriate length, then half smiled and said, “Powerful stuff,” before segueing into a profile of a cabdriver who got his leg crushed by a bus and now does stand-up comedy about it.
    Hobart retreated to his room to check the Summer Camp message boards as I stomped around, aflame with beer andepiphany. Preston Brooks is a genius, I decided. He’s the greatest con artist in the world.
    It’s hard to describe how you feel when you discover something like that. I guess the closest metaphor is that it’s like solving an irritatingly stupid brainteaser that has stumped you for a long time.
    I thought about the pictures I’d seen at lunch, of Pamela McLaughlin and Nick Boyle and Josh Holt Cready. Of course! They were all con artists! They’d been staring out at me like a grifter stares at a shill! The costumes, the Civil War getups, the fake crime scenes, the armored vehicles—it was all part of the act! If you could write a book and act like you meant it, the reward was country estates and supple college girls.
    I needed to talk to somebody. I took out my phone and dialed Lucy in New York.
    “Pete? What’s up?”
    “Lucy, hey what’s up, it’s Pete.” (I was kinda drunk by now.)
    “Did you hear about Polly’s wedding? Are you excited?” Lucy is one of those girls from the Midwest who think everything’s terrific.
    “Yeah, super news. Listen let’s talk about some books.”
    “Oh, did you start Peking ?”
    “Not yet. Listen what’s the deal with Preston Brooks?”
    “The Kindness to Birds guy? You called me at eleven to ask about Preston Brooks?”
    “Yeah you know, just talk to you.”
    “Um, we don’t publish him or anything, but everybody’s—”
    “Listen, how much money do you think a guy like that makes?”
    “Well, I can’t really say; it sort of depends. There’s—you know—paperback rights, and—”
    “What would be the ballpark?”
    “Well, I actually saw just today that the movie rights sold. It said high six figures .”
    I put down my phone. I could hear Lucy’s chirp come through. But I was busy picturing Polly’s wedding.
    I would walk in wearing a suit I’d paid someone to pick out for me. At the bar I would order something writerly, perhaps naming a Scotch they didn’t have. My contemporaries, American men—who are philistines—might not recognize me, because my book’s publicity had not yet penetrated the CNN/ SportsCenter loop in which they are trapped. But there would be no mistaking the reaction of the whispering women. The aunts and cousins would be braver, coming up to me, clutching my arm and telling me how they’d loved my novel, and wanting to know where I got my ideas, and how I’d gotten