“This is the den?” “Daddy doesn’t like it when I call it the bunker. Bad associations with the past, he says. So, well, whatever keeps the old man happy.” Inside was a dark, warm space from the 1950s. Baseball pennants pinned to rich wood-paneled walls, old globes and maps, Tiffany lamps, an antique radio, and a bar straight out of a Rat Pack musical. “Drink?” Junior said, walking over to the big mahogany desk at the far side of the room. “No, thanks. I’d like to get straight down to business, if I could.” “Businessman? That’s good. What’s your business, Mike?” “A book you possess. A, um, an alternate Constitution of the United States.” Behind the desk, he was opening its deep central drawer. “Ah,” he said, with rueful knowledge. “That old thing.” “I represent someone who wants that book very badly. I’m empowered to offer you ten million dollars for it. But the deal has to be struck today.” His eyes widened and his mouth shrank. “Today?”
