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individually wrapped. She smiled knowingly.
    “Thank you.” He counted out seven, then nodded. “For my friends.”
    “No problem. Take the whole box if you want.”
    “No, I couldn’t do that. I doubt John would appreciate being robbed.”
    She laughed. “Oh I doubt that, Mr. Elway is very generous.”
    “Well, judging by his choice of steaks, he doesn’t skimp, I can agree to that. Have a great evening, Cynthia.”
    “Thank you. Drive safe.”
    He stopped at the outer door and looked back. “Oh, I almost forgot, I think a boy fell asleep in the restroom.”
    “Really?”
    “I don’t know, but he looked asleep to me.” He flipped his hand in a casual salute. “Anyway, thanks again.”
    Then he was alone outside, surrounded by the night. He took a deep breath, appreciative of the rich scent of searing steak
     from the establishment’s kitchen vents.
    A man’s choice of car was telling. He once heard that an extremely wealthy man, whose name he’d purposefully forgotten, chose
     to drive an old pickup truck rather than a Mercedes. Quinton had known at once that the man was either hopelessly insecure,
     or completely mad. No one comfortable in their own skin would try to hide their wealth unless they supposed that others didn’t
     approve of wealthy people or of people who wanted to be wealthy, thereby necessitating a disguise.
    Quinton did appreciate the need for subtlety, something Josh hadn’t understood until just a few minutes ago. But driving a
     pickup truck when you’re worth a hundred billion was the farthest thing from subtlety. If the man wasn’t insecure, he was
     deeply deluded into thinking that pretending to be a common man would make him so. If anything, such eccentric behavior drew
     more attention than had the man been honest with himself. Perhaps he longed for the extra attention, not willing to be just
     another rich man in a rich car, and it was insecurity, not madness, that compelled the man.
    The circular logic of it all came slamming home with a nauseating
thunk.
Quinton had spent considerable time mulling over the question and never landed on a definitive answer.
    He rounded the restaurant, walked up to his Chrysler 300M, and noted that a BMW M6 had parked next to his ride. At well over
     a hundred thousand dollars, the M6 was BMW’s most expensive vehicle, an overstatement of any owner’s testosterone. The small
     M6 symbol was all that told a passerby this car was far more expensive than its lesser, otherwise identical sibling.
    Nevertheless, the styling was subtle. A reasonable choice in extravagance. He briefly courted the notion of slashing the tires
     on the M6, then dismissed the idea as a lesser man’s fantasy.
    Quinton found pleasure in the knowledge that he directed no resentment or jealousy toward those who pretended to be more important
     than he was. Though he felt no compulsion to do so, he could this very moment walk into any bank or down Wall Street and be
     greeted with the same warmth and respect saved for any successful business executive. Yet he derived no undue pleasure or
     derision from that fact.
    Or he could dress in one of his many identical pairs of gray slacks, don one of his blue short-sleeved shirts, put on a wedding
     band, take out his older green Chevy pickup, which he preferred to the 300M, and be accepted in any bar or any grocery store
     checkout line as the respectable guy next door.
    Quinton slipped out of his jacket and settled into his car. Before going home, he would drive to Melissa Langdon’s house.
     She would be arriving in the next half hour. If he hurried, he could arrive before she did.
    It took him a full twenty-five minutes to navigate his way south on I-25 to C470, then north on Santa Fe Drive to Miss Langdon’s
     neighborhood. He eased the car to a stop on the street adjacent to Peakview, far enough away to avoid suspicion from the blue
     house, but close enough for him to view her coming and going.
    The night was still, and