Vargas shook his head as he got up to refill his glass. “It’s something to think about, I guess.” He was probably imagining a giant airplane dropping insecticide all over Whitefish Point.

Kenny looked us all over one by one, shaking his head. He knew what we were doing. This was what Jackie meant when he told me there was another reason why they played cards with Vargas, this whole idea of helping him rethink his development plans. But that look on Kenny’s face seemed to say, “You can fight it all you want. But it’s coming. If not this year, then next year. Bay Harbor is coming.”

The phone rang while Vargas was pouring himself another shot of Macallan. He picked it up and said, “Vargas here.” Then he excused himself, told us to deal him out a couple of hands.

We played without him. It wasn’t quite the same. Too quiet, for one thing.

“Tell me, Kenny,” Bennett finally said. “What’s it like working for him?”

“Why do you want to know?” Kenny said.

“Just making conversation,” Bennett said.

“I’ve got a house there myself,” Kenny said. “In Bay Harbor. That’s how it is to work for him.”

“Fair enough,” Bennett said. And that was the end of that.

When Vargas got back to the table, something had changed. He left his Macallan sitting untouched on the bar, took out a real glass and filled it with three fingers of Jack Daniels. “You had it right, Alex,” he said. “This does feel like a J.D. night.”

“Everything okay?” Gill said. “You seem a little tense all of a sudden.”

“I’m an old first baseman,” he said as he sat down. “I’m always tense. Right, Alex?”

“My deal,” I said. “You know the game.”

“Five card stud,” Vargas said. “And speaking of studs, where’s Mr. Swanson tonight, anyway?”