THE THIRD CELL PHONE number found Pace at some undisclosed location. The man with no home had been in D.C. less and less in recent weeks. Of course he was off putting out another fire, nixing another round of nasty litigation for another wayward client, though he didn't admit this. Didn't have to. Clay knew him well enough by now to know that he was a fireman in demand. There was no shortage of bad products out there.

Clay was surprised at how comforting it was to hear Pace's voice. He explained that he was in New York, whom he was with, and why he was there. Pace's first word sealed the deal. "Brilliant," he said. "Just brilliant."

"You know him?"

"Everybody in this business knows Patton French," Pace said. "I've never had to deal with him, but he's a legend."

Clay gave the terms of the offer from French. Pace quickly caught up and then began thinking ahead. "If you refile in Biloxi, Mississippi, Ackerman's stock will take another hit," he said. "They're under tremendous pressure right now—pressure from their banks and their shareholders. This is brilliant, Clay. Do it!"

"Okay. Done."

"And watch the New York Times in the morning. Big story about Dyloft. The first medical report is out. It's devastating."

"Great."

He got a beer from the mini-bar—$8.00 but who cared—and for a long time sat in front of the window and watched the frenzy on Fifth Avenue. It was not entirely comforting to be forced to rely on Max Pace for advice, but there was simply no one else to turn to. No one, not even his father, had ever been presented with such a choice: "Let's move your five thousand cases over here and put them together with my five thousand cases, and we'll do not two but one class action, and I'll plunk down a million or so for the medical screenings while you double your advertising plan, and we'll rake forty percent off the top, then expenses, and make us a fortune. Whatta you say, Clay?"

In the past month he'd made more money than he'd ever dreamed of earning. Now, as things spun out of control, he felt as if he was spending it even faster. Be bold, he kept telling himself, this is a rare opportunity. Be bold, strike fast, take chances, roll the dice, and you could get filthy rich. Another voice kept urging him to slow down, don't blow the money, bury it and have it forever.

He had moved $1 million to an account off-shore, not to hide but to protect. He would never touch it, not under any circumstances. If he made bad choices and gambled it all away, he'd still have money for the beach.

He would sneak out of town like his father and never come back.

The million dollars in the secret account was his compromise.

He tried calling his office but all lines were busy, a good sign. He got Jonah on his cell phone, sitting at his desk. "It's crazy as hell," Jonah said, very fatigued. "Total chaos."

"Good."

"Why don't you get back here and help!"

"Tomorrow."

At seven thirty-two, Clay turned on the television and found his ad on a cable channel. Dyloft sounded even more ominous in New York.

DINNER WAS AT MONTRACHET, not for the food, which was very good, but for the wine list, which was thicker than any other in New York. French wanted to taste several red burgundies with his veal. Five bottles were brought to the table, with a different glass for each wine. There was little room for the bread and butter.

The sommelier and Patton lapsed into another language when discussing what was in each bottle. Clay was bored with the entire process. A beer and a burger would've been preferable, though he could see his tastes changing dramatically in the near future.

When the wines had been opened and were breathing, French said, "I called my office. That lawyer in Miami is already on the air with Dyloft ads. He's set up two screening clinics and is running them through like cattle.

Name's Carlos Hernandez, and he's very, very good."

"My people can't answer all the calls," Clay said.

"Are we in this together?" French said.

"Let's go over the deal."

At which French whipped out a folded document. "Here's the deal memo," he said, handing it over while he went for the first bottle. "It summarizes what we've discussed so far."

Clay read it carefully and signed at the bottom. French, between sips, signed as well, and the partnership was born.

"Let's file the class action in Biloxi tomorrow," French said. "I'll do it when I get home. I've got two lawyers working on it right now. As soon as it's filed, you can dismiss yours in D.C. I know the in-house counsel for Ackerman Labs. I think I can talk to him. If the company will negotiate directly with us, and bypass their outside counsel, then they can save a bloody fortune and give it to us. And it will greatly expedite matters. If their outside lawyers take charge of the negotiations, it could cost us half a year in wasted time."

"About a hundred million, right?"

"Something like that. That could be our money." A phone rang somewhere in a pocket and French whipped it out with his left hand while holding a wineglass with his right. "Excuse me," he said to Clay.

It was a Dyloft conversation with another lawyer, somebody in Texas, obviously an old friend, one who could talk faster than Patton French. The banter was polite, but French was cautious. When he slapped the phone shut he said, "Dammit!"

"Some competition?"

"Serious competition. Name's Vic Brennan, big lawyer in Houston, very smart and aggressive. He's onto Dyloft, wants to know the game plan."

"He got nothing from you."

"He knows. He's unleashing some ads tomorrow— radio, television, newspaper. He'll pick up several thousand cases." For a moment, he consoled himself with a sip of wine, one that made him smile. "The race is on, Clay. We have to get those cases."

"It's about to get crazier," Clay said.

French had a mouthful of Pinot Noir and couldn't speak. "What?" his face said.

"Tomorrow morning, big story in the New York Times. The first bad report on Dyloft, according to my sources."

It was the wrong thing to say, as far as dinner was concerned. French forgot about his veal, which was still in the kitchen. And he forgot about the expensive wines covering his table, though he managed to consume them over the next three hours. But what mass tort lawy............