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fit it in.
    Now, would he give up his two-martini predinner evening to have someone make his decisions? No, he wouldn’t, but a lot of people would. AA offered that, in addition to endless evenings of acceptance, no one trying to punch your clock or do you one better or go for you. And you had Dad back again in the form of a sponsor, an absolutely blood-chilling prospect to Vernon, not because he didn’t want his dad back, but because he didn’t want a sponsor.
    He found it interesting that any alcoholic, if asked What do you want most in the world? would gaily cry, “A drink!” But this was self-delusion, for they wanted something else even more: salvation, Dad, acceptance no matter what—one or all of these things, and Vernon supposed they blended together like Stoly and dry vermouth.
    He was calling his start-up SayWhen.
    Money gave Vernon the same rush he knew Arthur Ryder got out of watching Aqueduct win the Gold Cup at Cheltenham, not once, but twice, the second time carrying twenty-three pounds. Yet he could not get Art to see how the stud fees would quadruple if he incorporated Ryder Stud and made an initial public offering by selling seasons for, say, Beautiful Dreamer and Samarkand. “It would bring in millions, Art.”
    â€œVernon, I don’t want millions.”
    Vernon was much too kind to point out that his stepfather had certainly wanted at least one near million two months before.
    â€œBut listen, Art. Look what they did in the U.S. with horses like Seattle Slew. Just for one breeding season they pulled in three quarters of a million. Multiply that by the number of stallion slots for one horse like Aqueduct. Then multiply again by the stallions you have at stud.”
    Arthur continued his round of evening stables, Vernon walking with him. He shook his head and said, “Vernon, this is what you do for a living? Why not just play poker?”
    â€œBecause this is more fun. And I’m trying to help you out, you know. How about foal sharing? That’s getting popular.”
    â€œ Foal sharing? Jesus.” Arthur just shook his head.
    It was true that Vernon wanted to help; he very much wanted to lessen his stepfather’s money concerns. But in addition, of course, it would be fun to trade some of the Ryder Stud horses on the exchange. In the last twenty months, there had been a more compelling motive: Vernon wanted to get Arthur’s mind off Nell, if only for a few moments at a time.
    For he had never seen Arthur Ryder stopped dead in his tracks before. Not even the death of his son Danny had done this—turned him to stone, unable to act. Roger, too, despite the fact he dealt with death every day, and often in the most shocking way, could not work Nell’s disappearance into the equation. The two of them, Arthur and Roger, had stared too long into the same space. Perhaps, Vernon thought, sharing the same space might be some comfort to them.
    Vernon had tried to handle things. “Things” included the bulk of police questioning, at the outset, Arthur and Roger having been unable to answer anything beyond yes, no and possibly. He also hired the best private investigator in London, a man named Leon Stone, known for his chameleonlike ability to melt into the background. Nineteen months before, they were sitting in Vernon’s flat, as Vernon related the story. He told Stone, “It must not be money they want. It’s been nearly a month now.”
    â€œNot necessarily,” Leon Stone had said. “Ransom might have been the reason originally, and then something happened to change their minds.”
    Vernon leaned forward, toward Stone, who was occupying the deep leather chair on the other side of the glass-and-mahogany coffee table. He said, “So we have to factor into this search all of the circumstances that might have surrounded their change of plans. Bloody hell. That’s impossible.”
    Stone held up his hand. “I