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on. Soon their life would be all about little Chester Ray Green. They’d be obsessed with first teeth and bowel movements, things I do not find fascinating. And they’d have new friends. Friends with babies. Friends similarly obsessed with first teeth and bowel movements.
    Terry stood and went into the house. A minute later, music came piping through the balcony speakers. Hound Dog Taylor, Natural Boogie . I’d given this album to Terry for his nineteenth birthday, when we were journalism students at Columbia College. Terry turned me on to bands like The Cure and XTC, while I turned him on to Hound Dog Taylor and Son Seals. Terry is black and I’m white. Neither of us wasunaware of the potential for irony but I think we were both pleased that it was about the music and didn’t have to be about race.
    We met as J-school freshmen and quickly bonded by comparing idols. The names you’d expect—Mark Twain, H. L. Mencken, Studs Terkel, David Halberstam. Hunter S. Thompson was massive for both of us, as he was for most American teenagers who aimed at a career in journalism and many who didn’t. Mike Royko and Clarence Page were our current local heroes.
    And then there was Woodstein. Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein. Between us, we’d read All the President’s Men probably a dozen times and we spent many nights in Terry’s studio apartment, drinking bargain beer and eating white cheddar popcorn and playing the movie over and over again. We knew it by heart and would often say our favorite lines along with Redford and Hoffman, Balsam and Robards. Sometimes we’d talk right over the film, debating the investigative techniques and journalistic ethics portrayed on the screen.
    The editor of the school paper affectionately dubbed us Woodward and Bernstein, and we sometimes still used the nicknames, twenty years later.
    Christ, twenty years. Terry hadn’t brought down any crooked presidents but he’d built a solid career, married a lovely woman, and was now about to become a dad. I’d given up on journalism and wasn’t entirely sure what I had become, or what I was building.
    Terry returned to the balcony and said, “Still love this album.”
    â€œTempus fugit,” I said. Looking for safer ground, I steered the conversation to Joan Richmond and Steven Zhang.
    He pulled out his notebook. “Thought you said there wasn’t a story in this.”
    â€œFar as I know, there isn’t.”
    â€œYou may change your mind. If there is a story, I want it.”
    â€œGoes without saying,” I said.
    He flipped some pages. “Joan Richmond. Murdered by Steven Zhang on August 13. Worked at HM Nichols…”
    â€œI’m up on current events,” I said. “I’m looking for red flags in the background. Previous employer may be a lead.”
    â€œDamn right it is,” said Terry. “You’ve heard of Hawk River.”
    â€œMilitary contractors. Got a lot of security guys in Iraq and Afghanistan.”
    â€œAnd at least fifteen other countries,” said Terry, “including ours. Since the geniuses in Washington sent our National Guard to the Middle East, we’ve even got these guys in New Orleans and Mississippi.”
    â€œPolitics aside—”
    â€œPolitics is never aside,” said Terry. He’d finished his scotch and refilled his glass, topped mine up. “Dude, we’re talking about some powerful motherfuckers. And there are whispers…assassinations, sabotage jobs, you name it. Word is, if you want a civil war started in some Fourth World country, these are your guys.”
    â€œAnd Joan Richmond used to work for them.”
    â€œAnd Joan Richmond used to work for them. Six years, head of payroll. She quit ten months ago.” Terry drew on his cigar, blew out a stream of fragrant smoke. “But it gets better…or worse. The congressional Oversight and Government Reform committee is