We were sitting in his office. Quirk had one foot up on an open file drawer in his desk. The crease in his tan flannels was still intact. His blue-and-tan-striped tie was loosened. His blue oxford shirt was open at the neck. His blue blazer hung wrinkle-free on a hanger on a hat rack near the door. Quirk thumbed through the thin manila folder for a moment. "Paroled February second, 1965," Quirk said. "Coincident with Abner Fancy," I said. "Who the fuck is Abner Fancy?" Quirk said. I told him about Shaka and about nearly everything else I had. He listened without speaking. When I was done, he said, "The fucking Bureau." "My thought exactly," I said. "They're hard to fight," Quirk said. "Maybe," I said. "But I think Epstein's with us." "I know Epstein. He's straight, but he's a career guy in the Bureau. He can't do too much without blowing his career." "I know." "Which is why he's using you," Quirk said.
