Tom spent the salad course wondering what a “floor whore” was. Loreen fed Tricia from a jar of strained peas, then excused herself long enough to install the baby in a playpen. Barry didn’t want the steak even after she cut it for him; Loreen fixed him a peanut butter sandwich and sent him out into the back yard. When she sat down again her own steak was surely stone cold—Tony had just about finished his.

A floor whore, Tony explained, was a novice salesman, viewed mainly as a nuisance by the older hands at the lot. Tony shook his head. “The thing is,” he said, “I’m already getting some flak over this. Bob Walker—the co-owner—was very much opposed to me putting you in this job. He says it’s nepotism and he says it frankly sucks. And he has a point, because it creates a problem for the sales manager. He knows you’re my brother, so the question becomes, do I handle this guy with kid gloves or do I treat him like any other employee?”

“I don’t want any special treatment,” Tom said.

“I know! Of course! You know that, I know that. But I had to go to the manager—Billy Klein, you’ll meet him tomorrow —I had to go to him and say, Hey, Billy, just do your job. If this guy fucks up then tell him so. If he doesn’t work out, you tell me. This is not a featherbed. I want the maximum from this man.”

“Sure enough,” Tom said, inspecting the greasy remains of the steak on his plate.

“There are basically two things I want to make clear,” Tony said. “One is that if you screw up, I look bad. So as a favor to me, please don’t screw up. The second is that Billy has a free hand as far as I’m concerned. You answer to him from now on. I don’t do his job and I don’t look out for you. And he is not always an easy man to please. Frankly, he wouldn’t piss down your throat if your guts were on fire. If it works out, then fine, but if not—what the hell are you smiling at?”